


Sticky Notes

by Camlann



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Man of Steel (2013), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Clark Kent Angst, M/M, Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Post-Justice League (2017), Protective Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camlann/pseuds/Camlann
Summary: After dying, Clark needs to fall in love with humanity all over again. Thankfully, he has some help with that. (Or the one where the batkids accidentally on purpose initiate Clark into their lives and Bruce is a little amused by the whole thing. In fact, he may be encouraging it.)





	1. Aftermath: A Prologue

Two hours or so of fighting alongside one another doesn’t exactly make them friends, but it does call into question their dislike for one another. Superman is willing and ready to put everything aside for the greater good with stipulations (like Batman doesn’t try to kill him again just for breathing the same air on the planet, kay, thanks). Batman is another story, of course, but he doesn’t seem to hate him anymore and seems to be willing to work with him in regards to the team. You don’t just resurrect someone you despise after all, or at least he doesn’t think anyone would. Clark tries not to look that particular gifted horse in the mouth as he goes about regaining a sense of himself. Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it as he starts to reorganize his life with the Bat and the League firmly within his coloring lines.

After Steppenwolf becomes just another news story; after Superman is dead and then alive and then front and center for the papers to lash out at; after Clark Kent gets back his job at the Daily Planet and takes back a ring from Lois Lane; after Bruce Wayne buys a bank and a newspaper to right a wrong, things start to settle down.

“I’ll take care of the insurance company trying to sue you for fraud if you can find the off switch on Flash that lasts more than a few seconds.”

“Somehow, I feel like I have the short straw here.”

“Not up to the challenge?”

“Now I didn’t say _that_.”

Barry admits too easily that he needs friends, but he’s unapologetically himself and Clark knows the feeling of being ‘other’ all too well. In fact, they’ve somewhat structured their entire team around that concept and to reach out to find a whole set of hands reaching back has to be new for all of them. So Clark does the only thing he can think of and accepts a few hair brained ideas that Flash comes up with to entertain himself, including this one that Bruce has actually deemed smirk worthy when it had been suggested after a team meeting (they’re still trying to get Arthur to show up to them regularly and it’s not working, but at least the four of them are having a good time while he’s away dealing with eldritch horrors or whatever it was he does).

“But if I win you’re off the team.”

Poor kid, he shouldn’t tease him, but Clark does just so he can see the smile spring to life when Barry realizes he’s joking. Brunch can be explained later (he doesn’t understand why it’s such a hard concept for the young man, he loves the idea himself). Right now, he has a race to lose. It’s a good story, one that brings all of them around to hear it, and Clark gets to lean into Diana while Barry bounces around Arthur, and for a second they’re just the young people they could have been if their lives had gone differently. Looking over the hubbub though, Victor’s questions turning into background noise, Clark can’t help but notice Bruce is nowhere near them.

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Batman made it clear he works alone more than once, that they need to stay out of his city and let him be, and anyone that doesn’t will - well, Clark isn’t really sure what. Maybe given some sort of negative citation in that bat computer of his. ‘ _IQ below average, reconsidering place on team, cannot keep nose to self_ ’ or something else like that. It’s just Clark has a hard time believing that a man who pulled him out of the grave and jump started his heart with energy that could destroy a planet, a man who crafted kryptonite into a weapon because he’d watched him so closely he understood his weaknesses better than himself, _doesn’t_ want to know him. Not to mention all the things that have happened after that entire experience, including finding out the Daily Planet is part of Wayne Enterprises. Had it been that way before he died? He's pretty sure it hadn't been. The man really did have a problem when it came to buying things. And if Diana has to argue with Batman one more time that people other than him can check Superman’s injuries, he’s sure it’ll come to blows.

(It's like he's been marked as ‘property of Bruce Wayne’ or something. Not that it isn’t nice to feel the warm palm against his pulse point, urging him this way and that because ‘no one knows what kryptonite does to him better than I do.’ Not that Clark has taken the time to think why having Bruce’s hands on him is nice, mostly because the one time he did it reminded him that he hadn’t had anyone touch him with such care since his mother cradled his face after he came back to life and that realization had hurt his heart. And not that he’s considering just how often the other man touches him now, from walking too close so that they brush arms to sitting so that a warm thigh is pressed right up next to his if there’s no armrest in the way. No, he doesn’t think about any of those things and he definitely doesn’t think about them when he’s standing in line for coffee or when he catches the eye of a pretty girl across the street. They’re partners, they rebound off each other, they lean into each other when it gets bad, but he definitely is not thinking about anything else. _Nope_.)

Bruce is wound so tight he wonders how the man can breathe, is what he’s trying to say. Doesn’t he get lonely? Doesn’t he _want_ to be part of the team he created? Doesn’t at least Alfred get tired of him? The answer to all of the above seems to be no. In the then and now, it wouldn’t be appropriate to step over to the computer, drag him by his cape to join in, but Clark thinks about it long enough to be caught staring. He grins, jerks his head to invite him to their activity, but Batman just turns back around with a narrowing of eyes.

The next time it happens, Clark is in a decidedly less than amenable mood considering the natural disaster they’ve just returned from. Chairs with wheels are meant to roll, so he plants his heel against one of them and sends it gently back towards the equipment tables after Bruce sits down but before the rest of the team shows up. It says a lot about how far they’ve come that Batman sails with it, his cape twisted around one leg to keep from running over it, ankles crossed in the air without a footrest and eyes amused as they watch Superman all but march up to him. They’ve become more and more amused with him as the months have gone by, except for the times they are as hard as gemstones and glaring openly in disagreement. That’s only really when he hurts himself though, so maybe that’s his fault.

Hands curling around the armrests, he squints at Batman who silently keeps his gaze, and then tiredly lets his head hang so that he can rub at his eyes. A hand presses through his hair to relax him and Clark stands straight once he is.

“Stay. Please.”

“I’m right here.”

It’s the best he can do as he cracks his jaw with a yawn, his energy depleting a bit as the sun has gone down. In the fraction of a second it takes for his ears to pop, Barry is right there next to them and Diana not far behind. Leaks immediately appear in the positive attitude the Flash is known for and Clark starts to do damage control. Quietly assuring Barry that they did the best they could, as fast as they could, and those that hadn’t made it are fewer because of that is something he’s had to do before. Victor doesn’t look any happier this time around, but at least he seems to understand better that they can't save everyone (though not from a lack of trying). Batman weighs in once he finishes, then Diana, and Superman is thankful for backup on this one. Clark doesn’t even notice when he crosses his arms over the back of Bruce’s chair, chin resting across them and listening to them speak until the man leans back and glances curiously up at him. Questions spark in those eyes and Clark doesn’t have any answers, just lifts one shoulder as if to say, ‘ _I’m tired, I’m comfortable, and this is where I might very well fall asleep if I stay much longer_.’ Flashing a smile sleepily down at him, Clark diverts his attention back to the team when an argument breaks out. Okay, so no sleeping for awhile yet, it seems.

“No. _Arthur_. That’s not what we meant.”

Things aren’t great but they will be. He hopes they will be, at least.

Oh, it’s not the _team_ he’s worried about as he flies home that night. There are times he wonders just how he got so lucky with them. It’s him as a part of that team, all exhausted tension from arguing and something jittery low in his gut from when Bruce had all but growled everyone but him out of the cave. It’s the damning slouch that went through him as the other braced his hands against his shoulders and told him to go rest after a few long moments of just staring at him straight on, as if he could see that things were less than great for one Clark Kent. It’s the feeling of emptiness when he leaves that cave behind him, thanks Alfred for his hospitality, and ends up in a sparse apartment across a bay with no one to talk to. If he were to describe his life right now, he would use the word ‘fine.’ Fine is a standard definition of things going onward in a nonchalant and meandering, uncaring way. Nothing in relation to him seems to be going anything other than fine right now. If Bruce can see it in his eyes then he’s been right to assume _fine_ needs to be upgraded to _great_ real fast, at least in order to keep people from finding out that the settling dust is what has made him start to fall apart. Maybe he’s not fit for all of this just yet after everything that’s happened, but he can’t just _say_ that. The world needs him.

Somehow, having an entire slew of people for all the hero things made all the daily things seem far more lonely. Lois isn’t talking to him outside of work just yet, she still needs time to become who she wants to be without him, and he still doesn’t exactly know who to be after death. He's still Clark Kent but it doesn't feel like he's whole anymore unless he's in the thick of things and busy. What a funny thing, death. He doesn’t remember any of it, just a void where something should be, and it irks him that whenever he’s alone he feels that void again. He’d done such a good job immediately after, everything going to Hell and all had given him something to be distracted by, something to be strong for. Now, there is no need for that kind of mind numbing activity and he is left to pick up the pieces, to face that void alone.

_Things will get better_ he reminds himself as he drops his bag by the door and opens up a can of instant soup instead of cooking the slowly wilting vegetables that fill his fridge. Things _will_ get better he chants as he washes up a coffee cup from that morning and throws the day’s newspaper into the recycle without a glance, goes to start his nightly routine for bed. Things will get _better_ he prays as he stares at his ceiling trying to find the wherewithal to sleep.

It’s just tomorrow he has to get up and do it all again so sleep seems a bit pointless when it’s all the same. Clark forces his muscles to relax, closes his eyes to count sheep. Maybe, _maybe_ tomorrow will be different just like he always hopes it is.

He could use different right about now.


	2. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always feels slightly under dressed for Gotham. That might be the paranoia of being there without an invite, though.

Clark puts his thoughts on hold for daily life. When he’s not thinking about the partnership that makes him feel alive and all the emptiness at home where he feels the worst, he puts his head down and does his work. Unfortunate that his work takes him to Gotham more often than he’d like to admit, enough that it starts to become routine. He’s getting a reputation as being the one to go out there and it’s probably not a good thing to have connected to his name. The Bat is going to kill him one of these days for stepping foot inside his city without forewarning and a surprised Batman is not something Clark would like to meet. With all his planning, there’s probably quite a few one off scenarios that end with Superman having a shard of crystal in uncomfortable places just because he’s treading where he’s not wanted.

Standing outside the police station seems exactly like one of those places where he shouldn’t be. Trying to gather his nerves to make an entrance, Clark doesn’t feel like today is any different than any other, the starting point for some grand plan he has no idea of. Of course, sometimes he’s wrong, so very wrong, and he doesn’t even mind that much. Being wrong can be good for the right reasons.

“You know, they can only help you if you go in.”

Clark blinks at the young woman that seems to just have _appeared_ at his elbow, cloud filtered sunset shining off a cheeky smile. There’s a glint in the girl’s eyes and the journalist ducks his head, playing his part well even if he notices her gaze has gone stern. There’s a hardness there that contrasts sharply with her grin. On such a young face it’s startling, but he’s used to covering his tracks and does so with ease. Sheepish smile in place, he rubs the back of his neck. She’s watching him like she knows something he doesn’t, but that could be the paranoia of being in Gotham without an invite.

“I doubt they want to talk to me.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try. Here, I’ll even walk in with you if it's something you need to report,” she offers, voice going gentle and soft. “I’ve got to grab my dad for dinner anyways.”

“Nothing like that. Your father works here?”

“Don’t think you’ll get a quote out of me,” she counters immediately, gesturing to the Daily Planet pin on the lapel of his jacket. “Just because I’m the commissioner’s daughter doesn’t mean I know anything.”

“Never would have asked you unless you were involved, Miss. This story is one I had hoped would wrap up quicker than it has.”

“Sheesh, okay, come on. It’s Barbara, first off. I already can guess what you’re here about. When you started to develop the same patterns in Metropolis, it was only a matter of time before someone showed up to talk to him.” He gives her a look, brow rising as he’s led. So much for not knowing anything. She stares back at him, daring him to say something. “What? I read the papers.”

She practically drags him into the police station, bypassing most people with a wave of her hand. They all know her and it’s unnerving that with a simple gesture, he’s being told to sign in before going back too. He has to give over a few things that are rattling around in his pockets, but they promise to give them back when he leaves, and then he’s once more being pulled through the building by Barbara Gordon. He’s read about her family, mostly because he has that kind of time on his hands these days and the Bat seems to have some sort of working relationship with the GCPD. It’s a curiosity and Clark wonders if Barbara even realizes how far in her father is.

“Dad?”

“Barbara. Who’s this?”

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet reporter. I found him outside, he seems nice. He’s doing a story and I wanted to know what it was about. He keeps trying to talk to you, so he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Mr. Kent.”

“It’s really much more innocent than it seems, Commissioner,” Clark hastily interjects, eyes wide and posture curling more. “She-”

“Does what she wants,” the man offers, though his gaze is leveled on his daughter. She smiles bright, hands on her hips. It’s like she knows she’s not going to get in trouble. “Barbara, will you please go wait in the break room and leave Mr. Kent and I to discuss whatever matter he’s come for.”

“Sure thing! Take your time, I have to call Dick anyways.”

She’s gone with a silent flourish, a dramatic air sweeping behind her like a cape as she walks. Strange, but he’s more concerned about the man now staring him down. Clearing his throat, he straightens out a crooked tie. He always feels a tad under dressed for Gotham, even if that’s the entire point of his outfit. At least she’s gotten him into the Commissioner’s office, that’s something he hasn’t been able to do before. It’s best to make a good impression, and wide eyed acceptance that the other's daughter is a mastermind beyond his own mental capacity seems a good way to go for right now.

“Commissioner, I’m here about the campus murders. There’s been talk about puzzle boxes being left at the scenes…”

He’s off to the races and James Gordon is a good man, he can tell right away. While he may not like answering questions, he admits to working with Metropolis PD in the hopes of clearing up these matters now that they’ve also crossed the bay. They both jot down information in shorthand and Clark will have to make a visit to his local station to confirm a few things. All in all, everything checks out from what he’s learned in his day job.

This is where he starts to play on a knife’s edge, however. Throwing in a few questions he’s been pondering from his own crime fighting leads them down a path that neither expects. The Commissioner excuses himself not long after (because he has to make a call and Clark knows who is going to be on the other line. It’s magic not mystery anymore, not that either of them say it). Skedaddling seems like a good idea _before_ Batman realizes he’s in the city, and Clark all but bolts out the doors. Breathing deep in the new night, cringing at the smell of smog that seems to settle over the city this time of year, he tries to find someplace he can fly home from. Dumpster, dumpster, oh look a dark alley, not that he's surprised. Stepping into it, Clark pauses at the rustle of a cape above him. Well. _Shoot_.

Glancing up just in time to see a strip of purple dart away over the rooftops with a hand to her ear, Clark has no idea who she is. He had thought, but then it wasn’t, and now? Now he’s just standing in a dark alley in Gotham at the onset of night like an _idiot_ with his heart beating wildly and unneeded excuses on his tongue. The cowl is familiar and Clark stares some more at the rooftops before lifting into the sky to play cat and mouse for all of two seconds before he hears engines of a particular plane he does not want to run into tonight.

Okay, at least he’s not imagining things. That’s definitely a bat motif. When he gets home and boots up his laptop, he finds that flashes of color are not an uncommon sight either. Gotham seems to be filled to the brim with bat or bird vigilantes and he wants to bang his head on the table.

“There’s _more of them_?”

Flinging himself into bed is the next logical step, write-up be damned. This opens up a slew of other questions that Clark cannot ask Batman, even if they are just the ‘how’ and ‘who’ and ‘were you going to tell me?’ Okay, that one stings. Maybe he’s a little hurt Bruce didn’t trust him with this but since it seems like public knowledge, maybe he thought they all already knew. But Clark is trying to- he means he just wants to- okay. So maybe, _maybe_ he has a tiny crush and it hurts more than it should but that’s it. Rubbing at his eyes, Clark tries to not think about it too hard but rapidly fails in that determination.

He at least thought they had loneliness in common (meaning the team, yes the _team_ is the ‘they’ he’s thinking about, not just Bruce and himself, not just this man who confuses him and makes his knees weak, he’s thinking about _the team_ here). All of them had been on a list of metahumans, all of them are considered ‘other’ compared to the normal population, and all of them felt that otherness enough that they said yes to this whole idea. Clark has thought he’d finally found someplace he’d fit in, someplace where they could be open with each other and find new recruits together, someplace he didn’t have to worry about not being busy. Now, he feels as if the floor has just disappeared beneath him leaving him floating in his own personal darkness, slouching into oblivion all on his own again. Bruce has a whole team all by himself, not to mention the League. How is he supposed to relate to the man now?

Sleep does not come easy and when he wakes up, it’s to a note stuck on his fridge that was not there the night before.

 

> _Stay away from the Commissioner, Kent._
> 
> _And for God’s sake, stay away from Barbara._
> 
> _Trust me, it’s for your own good._

Clark doesn’t even have to guess who left the message, mostly because he’s already memorized Bruce’s handwriting and he knows no one else who would write with a fountain pen in this day and age. How did he even get in without him waking up? Clark spends his breakfast fiddling with window latches and trying to open the balcony door from the outside without making a sound, but fails with each entryway he can think of. It gives him something to do, something to focus on until it doesn’t. Alright, fine. It’s not like he anticipated being dragged into that meeting, he had come prepared to go through all the appropriate channels to get a quote, not bypass them. How was he supposed to know the girl was the Commissioner’s daughter? She’d just _appeared_ , okay? She’d done all the introductions and then walked away.

It’s not until he’s halfway to the Planet that he realizes that Barbara introduced him to her father with his full name, a name he had not given her. Blinking in the morning rush, stopped full tilt in the middle of the sidewalk, Clark has the distinct feeling he’s going to have a heart attack. Oh. _Oh_. The woman in purple, darting away back towards the police station as red hair bobbed in the wind. The words that fill his mind are more fit for having just hit his thumb with a hammer than a quiet Thursday morning, but it can’t be helped. He’s been played and he wonders how long it’s going to take to reconcile that whoever is helping out Batman knows who he is.

It takes until he reaches his office, turns out. There’s a note here too, taped to his keyboard, and it’s not the neat, tight loops that Bruce leaves him (because he says it’s the only way he’ll digest information being a journalist and all in the digital age, the bastard thinks he’s a funny man now that they’re not trying to kill each other). This message makes him smile something small though, shaking his head as he sticks it to the corner of his monitor and continues on with his day. Okay, so maybe someone else knew his identity, but she seems a good sort. That’s fine, if she is trusted by the Batman then he could trust her too. He just hopes it ends there, with a bit of scolding and some reluctant amusement. He doesn’t need the reminders.  

 

> _You have no idea how much fun it is to see him be ridiculous towards you._
> 
> _Sorry, S. I had to._
> 
> _BG_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have been overwhelmingly positive in response to this. o_o Thank you for the warm welcome into your fandom. From here on out, it'll be mostly my attempts at getting the BatFamily voices right.


	3. Dividing Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, his brain does this thing where it doesn't listen to him. It also doesn't tend to listen to reason during those times. Those days are the hardest, but he is trying. He promises.

Okay, so he has a plan on how to handle this whole crush thing. It’s not a very good plan, but at least he’s putting forethought into something and then applying it, trying to dig himself out of his slump by focusing on the only brightness he can currently see. Batman should be proud.

Said plan is this:

  1. Stop volunteering to go to Gotham for stories and only go when requested or if there’s a really juicy lead that needs him to go. Bruce Wayne anything is not a juicy lead.


  1. Definitely do not contact the Commissioner for quotes or follow ups on the murders. Assume close contact will reveal his identity to the detective.


  1. Figure out a way to keep Barbara and whoever DG is from sending him coffee at the office through those food delivery services. Perry is having fits.


  1. Attempt to ignore Bruce Wayne when he waltzes into the Daily Planet and bothers him at his desk with snide comments about Superman and twinkling eyes. Do not punch Bruce Wayne in the face, no matter how tempting.


  1. Refuse any and all offers for massages that said Wayne whispers to him before he leaves. Attempt to control Lois’ giggles by threatening to take away her new source of free coffee.


  1. Ignore Batman smirking at him and change the monitor duty schedule so that his time is divided up between Batman and everyone else more equally. This will help with team dynamics as they interact more with each other. Ignore that this will add him to the schedule more, leaving for less downtime at home.


  1. Profit by showing Bruce he’s taking his note seriously and trying to do his best to not stick his nose into his personal affairs, no matter how much he wants his nose in those places.


  1. Never think of where his nose should go in relation to Bruce again, for his own sanity.



See? It’s a plan! Just like everything else in his life though, it’s only just fine and certain bits of it immediately go to Hell in a handbasket. For instance, Lois needs coffee to function or she becomes feral. His predicament comes second to this, no matter her amusement. Also, he rarely gets monitor duty with anyone else and he’s starting to suspect Bruce has something to do with that. Their weekends always match up and if Clark was the romantic type, he’d think that maybe these are some sort of bat date (he is romantic, but _gosh darn it_ , he trying not to be in this instance and Bruce is making it exceedingly hard for him). That’s right, he said it. Bat. _Date_. Between the food that suddenly is there to share whenever he rolls in and the sudden knowledge of his favorite things that Alfred seems to have acquired from _his mother_ , he doesn’t know what else to call them. Not to mention the half flirting that takes place between them as they raze each other to the ground the longer the night goes on, words thrown at each other with hidden smiles reflecting in the monitors like traitorous mirrors.

God forbid the man actually just say something without thirty different meanings behind it, even if those meanings are _filthy_ , and- what was he thinking again?

Oh right. His faulty ‘I-refuse-to-have-a-crush-on-Bruce-Wayne’ plan.

Mostly, the plan failing is his own fault. The attention of one Bruce Wayne on one Clark Kent is enough to rattle him quite soundly, but add to it Batman quipping something about his strength or his costume and he’s out of his depth so quickly he didn’t even notice. It's _nice_ to find his days turning out differently, so maybe he's not trying so hard to hold himself accountable either. This takes him out of that routine of fine, fine, everything is _fine_. It may also remind him what it's like to have someone in his life that can spin his head around, make him think about something in another way, and make him feel like he’s somewhere warm like home. When Bruce is around, the void in his head gets smaller because it turns into the past and doesn't take over the present.

“Stop fidgeting.”

This he can handle, this he's getting used to. It’s a lot to take in, the skips in heartbeats and the feeling of being watched whenever they’re in the same room, of Bruce hovering just out of the corner of his eye and perched on things far too close to him, of the way they always find each other in a crisis. Clark shuffles one last time in his seat before stilling himself and his thoughts, eventually just floating up to sit crossed legged in the air. It fixes his problem, the cape never really meant to be sat in, and it allows him to practice his balance. Bruce eyes him and then returns to whatever he’s doing, growling every once and awhile as if that would fix whatever has been malfunctioning.

Silence doesn’t suit him, however, and Clark eventually starts to float higher to give himself something to do. Bruce stills his ascent with a hand on his knee and he goes no further, but it’s not high enough to make him feel like he’s accomplished something yet. Even if this silence is a good silence and not just one of necessity because no one else is there, he still wants to break it into pieces. It’s natural for Batman, _sure_ , but he can’t handle being with his own thoughts, especially when those thoughts are starting to stray to kevlar covered shoulders and glass spun blue eyes, to the idea that he’s making things up and he really should forget about this whole thing before he makes it uncomfortable. Making a frustrated noise on accident, Clark covers his face with his hands and falls backwards, tumbling into the air to land on his feet. Bruce is immediately alert but is waved off with a squeeze of a shoulder. He's not really in the right state of mind to deal with answering any questions when his face is cherry flushed.

Once outside what he has mentally dubbed ‘the fishbowl,’ he takes a breath and considers his path to the bathroom for something else to do. There's that familiar sensation of being watched, but it only stops him because it's the wrong angle to be Bruce this time. The stairs from the lake house. A new heartbeat? Clark floats over without preamble, despite the screech of a chair behind him and rush of feet. The boy doesn’t flinch, just continues to stare, calculate. He has genius behind his eyes but he can’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen.

“Hello there.”

“Hi.”

“Tim. I told you-”

“Not to come down here when you’re working.”

Propping one foot up on the last stair to rest his arms over his knee, Clark watches the interaction. Wow, so it’s not just _him_ that gets scolded in that rough, exasperated tone that could be almost fond if it wasn’t so annoyed. Good to know. Without his cowl, Bruce’s expressions are far more visible and the jump in his cheek, the hard frown at Tim’s doe eye stare pleading to just watch the monitors with them, are etched into his face as if cut from marble. Strange, that’s normally how people describe his own expressions and Clark hides an appreciative glance to focus on the teen who has scooted closer to him in curiosity. _Oh boy_.

Kid is eyeing the cape as he reasons out why he should be allowed to stay and Clark casts it out to him, red slipping over the stairs between them to be taken up quickly by eager fingers. He’ll give him this, the boy knows how to argue, but the searing heat across his cheek of Bruce’s glare also says that he’s not supposed to be taking sides. Perhaps it's too late for that and he smiles, first at this Tim and then at Bruce, who looks a bit taken by it as he sighs.  

This is not part of the plan, so he’ll have to improvise. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?

“You’ve been down here before, looks like,” he offers the teen in a soft voice when silence starts to hang over them, watching Tim pull on the cape, test its strength between two hands. “I’m-”

“Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet,” Tim rattles off, brow furrowed as he tries to determine something about the material. Clark raises an eyebrow and falters, eyes snapping to Bruce with a glint in them. The man seems resigned, watching warily. Here’s another one to add to the list of people who know who he is. It’s not that he’s mad, per se, but he certainly isn’t pleased. Secret identities seem to not matter in this household somehow. “This isn’t like any material I’ve ever seen. What’s it made of?”

“It’s not of Earth,” he offers in return, slowly disentangling himself and not quite answering the question. Hovering, his head tilts and he crosses his arms. “How long have you been here, Tim? You seem to know your way around.”

“He came up to the house a few weeks ago. Knew exactly who I was,” Bruce interjects, and Clark doesn’t dare turn back to him. Once he does, he’ll forget to be annoyed that his whole life is spilling out at the cracks where people can see it, put it together that Clark Kent is Superman. His mother has already been kidnapped once, he doesn’t want that again. At least it sounds like he wasn’t the only one blindsided by his name thrown out like that. But weeks? Really? “He’s quite adamant that I train him, seems he has a few people’s inside approval too. But I told him he had to play by my rules and do what I say first if he wants that. One of those rules is no coming down to the cave during League business.”

“Bruce is my guardian right now while things get sorted out.”

Bombs to the face are less painful than finding that kind of thing out from a stranger and shock crawls through his veins like spiders. It’s a clear line in the sand and Clark lets his tongue fill up the space behind his teeth. Better than snapping, letting words flow around him like black ink, staining something that may not even be there he reminds himself.

Tim isn’t supposed to interact with the League. Wait. _No_. The League is probably _fine_ , Clark chastises himself as his thoughts takes a darker turn right back to that void that is eating at his soul. Tim turns into more names, more faces, and he can't stop his mind from what it's hurtling towards. This feels _personal,_ it’s probably just _him_ they’re not supposed to go near because he’s been told the same thing. Tim, Gordon, Batgirl, a Robin that may or may not still be around, Gotham as a whole he’s been brow beaten into accepting as not his place to stray into unless Bruce opens the way for him (and he has been, he _has_ , but Clark is reeling from feeling so abjectly _alone_ in a room of people that it doesn’t help with the breathing thing). Why is Bruce the only one he gets to know? Does Bruce really believe he’s such a bad influence? Why flirt with him if he does? Clark doesn’t believe himself to be entirely awful, maybe a bit idealistic and innocent but he’s not naive. He thought they were getting somewhere, somewhere that meant telling each other things like this (maybe) or at the very least not telling others about things like that (definitely). How else could they find out though? Bruce is the only connection, even if there’s the implied threat that Tim figured it out all by himself. God, he really thought he’d gotten this whole ‘not Superman’ act down.

It’s been weeks though, weeks that he didn’t know the boy was living in a glass house above his head. Right. Okay. Time out, he could do this. Batman isn't the only one good at acting and it’s not the kid’s fault. Pulling a smile that’s pearly white from his pocket like he does everyday that he has to face the cameras (when he just wants to curl up and scream into the storm clouds in his mind but Superman can’t do that, not even Clark Kent can do that), he tips forward and offers Tim a hand to shake. It seems the thing to do in the moment and he’d do it with anyone that steps forward after a rescue or on the street after he lands.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Tim.”

“Superman. Nice to meet you too.” Genuine is what the kid is and so Clark is genuine right back, smile softening. Not Tim’s fault he reminds himself and the thunder in his ears quiets down.

“You do as he says, okay? I’m sure you have a lot to go over still. And, well, I’ll leave you two to work it out,” he offers, flying upright to check the time. Christ. Tim should be in bed even at this age for how late it is, and to keep from frowning he instead dips towards where he came from. He’s starting to sound like his Ma, but there are worse people to emulate he supposes. “Seems like our shift is over anyways. Maybe I’ll even see you later.”

Probably won’t be allowed if he were to guess, but he’s not going to harp on that point right now. He can hear the order to go back upstairs behind him even through the glass walls and all he does is type in his password for verification in the security system, start to sign out of his account. Soft footsteps come right up to him then, the darkness of the Bat too close and too warm at his shoulder, but Clark just keeps going.

“Clark…”

“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment, swear it,” he grunts, keeping himself in check. He doesn’t need to speed out of here, there’s no need to show he’s anything but cool as a cucumber. Bruce flirts with Diana too, maybe that’s just how he is with friends. It would make sense, the kind of life he’s had. Maybe he doesn’t even like men and this is entirely him misreading the situation. Clark feels nauseous as his brain seeps in its own vitrole. “Nice kid.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“No you weren’t. And _that’s okay_.”

He turns his head then, straightens up, and it’s not the first time he wishes he was taller than Bruce. Tilting his head up makes him feel like he’s exposing his jugular and a cold crawls down his spine anticipating a lunge. Bruce wouldn’t hesitate if he thought Clark was a danger to anyone in the vicinity, would he? No, and he has the means to do whatever it takes to bring him down. He’s been _good_ though and played nice, hasn’t asked for the kryptonite, hasn’t asked about the spear. Remembering a sticky note stuck to his fridge at home, Clark turns his gaze away from searching eyes that seem to want to find something in him that he doubts he has available at the moment. Whatever Bruce is looking for, he only has his pain and darkness to spare. But it really is okay, he’s the one being silly about this, and he gives the man a smile over his shoulder as he turns and finishes up.

“I get it, you’re protective. And they’re part of Gotham.”

“It’s not that.”

“I think you should let them meet Diana, though. She’d be a good influence. She’s very wise.”

“ _Clark_.”

“That brings it up to three now, right? I haven’t met a Robin yet, but you should make sure whoever they are can contact us if needed. You know, I think they may like Barry best, if you just give them the chance. He seems like he would be good with people who already know what’s going on. They might be able to keep up with him.”

Why haven’t his feet _moved_ , damn it? They’re _too close_ and he feels like only swaying closer. Actually, that's exactly what he does before reeling back, eyes wide. Bruce has a hand on his chest then, watching him carefully, and all he wants to do is bolt. He could be out in the open air by now, jetting through the sky and breaking atmosphere so that he didn’t have to listen to the strong heartbeat right in front of him muffled by technology (to keep from being found and _Clark should have known better_ ), or the softer one that didn’t quite make it all the way upstairs. They’re being watched and it changes his whole posture, tone, everything. Nothing new to be found, he just needs to get his head on straight. He knew he needed a plan for this crush before he did something stupid like fall head over heels. The problem is, of course, that he hadn’t accounted for having already done that very thing.

His smile returns with a sardonic edge, thrown at Bruce like one of the batarangs. It seems to worsen the situation if the hard frown is anything to go by and Clark takes the opportunity to finally, _finally_ step back from the other’s heat. How can he be so warm even through all that armor? Oh wait, because he’s _Batman_.

“I have to go. Have a good night, Batman.”

“What about Superman?” Too soft, too calm, Bruce knows they’re being watched as well. Why ask when neither can be honest, have to skirt the topic with a grace and poise that they just don’t have with each other.

“What about him?”

“You mentioned Diana and Flash when talking about being good with people. You’ve neglected yourself in that category.”

“I already know where I belong,” he states, rolling his shoulders as he kicks off the ground to remind them both he’s not human, to remind them both he’s still the ‘other’ in the equation. That particular question has an answer he’s examined before. What _about_ Superman? What would he do, wouldn’t he be good for these kind of things? Yes, because Clark would give and give and _give_ until everyone had a piece of him to take away, until Superman was just a name spread across the universe instead of a young man trying to figure out life after death. So he can give Bruce this reassurance that nothing changes, that he’ll keep coming back, because he still has more to give. “I got your note. I suppose I never told you that. Don’t worry about it. See you next week for all this again, right? And tell Alfred thank you for the scones, they were a great way to start out the evening. He seems to always pick my favorites when I’m here. You should have him pick yours next time, I’d like to try them.”

Scones might have been a better way to end the night by stuffing something into his mouth so he didn’t have the urge to talk anymore. He waits for an answer that doesn’t come and then just nods, letting out a breath. Okay then, off towards home and then to work. Should be simple enough, three hours of sleep isn’t the worst he’s gone in with and he just needs a bit more sun to counteract any tiredness that may come with it. He still has a plan and doesn’t think about the way Bruce’s face had cracked into something softer, broken as he was leaving, as if he had more to say but not the words to say it. No, he definitely doesn't think about the way he had a hand out as if to reach for him, to make a point or drag him back he’ll never know.

He actually only gets one hour of sleep all totaled up and there’s another note on his monitor at work, a familiar and deep voice in the offices beyond the bullpen as he walks in. He doesn’t read it, just sets it aside and glances at Lois for news. Sounds like a big meeting. Bruce Wayne's laugh makes his pulse jump and his gut warm in the best ways. Faster ways to break his heart include Doomsday ripping it out and eating it or kryptonite poisoning, but those aren’t nearly as lovely as staying in Bruce’s world is.

“Perry has Wayne in his office, look alive. He’s showing someone around the whole of his holdings and they’re starting in Metropolis,” she whispers urgently, setting down a cup of coffee and drawing away with a pat to his hand. “You look like death warmed up. You sure space cadets can’t get sick?”

Laughter creaks out of him and even he admits it sounds raw around the edges. But Lois shouldn’t have to worry about it and he smiles, letting himself dissolve into his work, focus on only that for hours on end like a good worker bee. Clark keeps his head down and hopes for no further transgressions, trying not to be bothered that Bruce can jetset into his own life so much easier than he can into the other’s. He types up his notes from an interview yesterday morning and downs his coffee black so it can take the edge off the droop of his eyes. Slowly, the black pit in his chest gives way to easy breathing as he works. Ducking behind the half wall around his desk before lunch, he spins his chair once to get himself to smile, decides he needs more coffee, and finally picks up his note.

> _There’s four of them, not three._
> 
> _He was excited to meet you. He keeps thinking about it._
> 
> _Not Diana, not Barry._
> 
> _You._

Leaning his hip gently against his desk as he rereads the words, Clark doesn't know what to think as he tapes it right next to Batgirl’s. This feels like an inch in a new direction, a pebble dropping down a steep incline and waiting to see if the whole mountainside goes. This feels like he's been given something that was ripped from deep inside the other, still wet with heart blood. Struggling with himself, he doesn’t know if he deserves it or not after his thoughts had careened so wildly the other night. When he glances up and locks on a familiar gaze, he has the uncomfortable feeling that maybe he's allowed his own darkness to blot out the starlight that was only starting to peek through. There's nothing but open curiosity in Bruce's eyes and Clark feels his breathe catch in his throat, his chest tighten at the implications of stepping over this line and right into a whole family affair that he knows too little about, might be too broken for.

Bruce Wayne looked at other people like that, not Clark Kent. Billionaires in Armani do not look at farm boys in polyester with compassion and curiosity. He shouldn't be looking at him at all. Lois said he looks terrible anyhow and now that he faces the reason why, he wonders just how bad it is. Of course the other man notices and starts to make a beeline towards him. Clark panics a bit and leaves his coffee behind, heads for the roof with a tug of his tie. He notes his trembling fingers, but there's no time for that right now. He just needs to get out, out, _out_ and it’s up, up and away.

There's a screech of tires and several loud crashes from three streets over. Okay, unplanned distraction. If it gets him away from that gaze that is too much warmth and something like understanding, well, at least he has a good excuse.


	4. Second Comings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can count to four when it's simple. This is no longer simple.

He’s not avoiding Bruce. Avoiding Bruce is impossible considering who they are and what they do. That being said, he certainly is taking his sweet time to come up with a way to apologize because none of the ways he comes up with seem enough. Exactly what he’s done wrong that requires an apology he’s not real sure, but he feels like it needs to happen. Between the faint touches and concerned glances, they’re getting somewhere. It just doesn’t help that the universe seems to be against them. A string of assassinations leaves Gotham scrambling and Bruce disappearing into his work so completely that he doesn’t even show up for some of the events in his own house. It’s interrupted their easy back and forth, even if that back and forth has quieted this last week to something more tentative.

But it’s hard to dismiss the way things have changed again since the start of this mystery. Maybe if Batman wasn’t so harsh on him in particular it’d be easier to sideline it as just tension from the case, but it’s turned into something harder to define alongside their new dynamic. If the guy didn’t care so much and try so hard to seem like he didn’t, maybe Clark could find some way to help ease the frown lines that seem to have become a permanent fixture on Bruce’s face of late. They only deepen when they look at him and he doesn’t understand why. Sure, Clark was out of the game for a bit, but kryptonite isn’t exactly in great supply and their enemies are more local these days. Gotham isn’t his place to intervene anyways and there’s no giant being from another world trying to destroy the planet this week. So he’s _fine_ , he’s _good_ even some days, or he would be if they could just stop butting heads with barely masked frustration.  

“You need to learn to not to rush into things headfirst.”

“Hello to you too. Are you even on the field right now or are you just chiming in from Gotham. Because really? This again? Bruce, I’m going to be _fine_.”

“Codenames on comms.”  

He doesn’t want to fight, but that seems to be all he can do with Bruce these days. Clark wants to ask what the Hell his problem is, this isn’t the first time there’s been a string of murders in Gotham, but Batman is gone from meetings as soon as they end when he _does_ attend. Alfred bids them leave as politely as he can, but it’s obvious that he has work to do that they are keeping him from.

With his newfound confidence in sticking his nose where he doesn’t think it belongs but being allowed to anyways, Clark starts to look into the situation a bit more. He’s not an investigative journalist for nothing and something stinks of important information that is lying just under the surface, entirely unknown. It is starting to rub him the wrong way and he can't focus on anything else until he figures it out, distracted enough even during his day job to have Perry snapping at him about deadlines. Sleuthing out a bit about the assassinations, he finds these people aren’t the nicest that are ending up dead, and then comes across a picture of a man taking out at least five people without breaking a sweat. New kid on the block? He’ll have to check them out, and he can see things from as far away as he likes, so maybe he’ll float up into the clouds and see what’s what just for tonight. Is the atmosphere above Gotham considered Gotham? Except that doesn’t work the way he wants it to as the culprit arrives in stunning glory in Metropolis. Handy and it doesn’t seem overly suspicious right then and there.

What does seem suspicious is the fight takes place on the edge of the city furthest from the bay and yet Batman still makes it there in good time. Not that he’s calculating the math out with bullets flying, trying to tie up goons that need to go to jail while still protecting them from the guy sent to take them out. Oh boy, tonight is going to be a _night_.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

The grunt Batman gives him is not an answer but it’s rough even under the modulator. Pausing as a few bullets embed themselves into the concrete just below his feet, Clark frowns hard at what that could mean, the curl on his forehead bobbing as he turns his head to this Hood person. Before Bruce showed up, this had been simple: get people to safety and apprehend the culprit. Pulling up out of a dive, he lands next to him and shifts his stance so they stand together, realizing that it has become a lot more complicated as he takes in the revving hearts of each. The one beside him is thrumming out of its normal sync, teeth set against one another enough to cause a distinct grinding sound, and all muscles are poised to attack. The one across from him? Steady as a beating drum in the eye of the hurricane, calm and collected, a bit too much like a dare to find something off about him. He can hear snickering behind the faceplate of the helmet and his brow furrows, head tilting as he tries to figure out what’s going on. Familiarity pings on the edge of his consciousness with the way the other stands, the way the other fights. Turning to ask another question, it dies in his throat.

As suddenly as he sees the look in his teammate’s eyes, he wants to whisk Bruce away from here and tuck around him, let his warmth fight off the icy stare. Unable to do that, he instead takes a different approach with the unknown in his equation and focuses down his senses to see what he can learn. Heartbeat, check, he’s already catalogued that as weird. Posture and costume, not familiar but definitely edging on it, so check. What next?

That’s when he catches the whiff of something strange with an updraft from the side of the building. Sweat and ammo are to be expected but there’s a sour sweetness underneath it somewhere of death and magic that seems to permeate the other’s very existence. That is _not_ normal and things go from fine to worse. Clark drops into defensive quickly as he catches Bruce doing the same at his side. It cuts off the snickering at least and Clark grits his teeth. This is the most contact he’s had with Bruce since this all started, but damn if it's a crapshoot right now.

“Drop your weapons,” he tries only to have a bullet ping off his chest. A growl from his side is the only other noise, something warning in it that Clark can’t quite figure out since Batman knows he can’t be hurt from any calibur. Maybe it’s the principle of the thing. He idly brushes off where the slug hit, taking a step forward in case he has to shield the other in whatever comes next. Batman takes the step with him and he tries not to sigh. “Really? That’s just uncalled for.”

“Well, _golly gee_ Superman, I guess you could call it anger management issues,” rasps the other through his teeth. It’s actually a snarl he determines after a quick x-ray and he’s frowning harder. A domino mask? That didn’t make any- “Gotta say, Bruce, I can see why you chose him. Nice to know things can just bounce right off him without a mark, huh? Bet that’s helpful.”

“Give it up, Hood.”

Clark’s blood chills at the other’s tone and he understands why criminals sometimes just give up when faced with the Bat. The guns get put away and the guy backs up a bit, not standing down but deftly moving himself out of reach. They know each other on a first name basis. Somehow, he’s not surprised considering the tension, but it’s the easy anger that sparks between them that makes him stall (he now understands what hurt anger looks like on Batman and he just wants to make it right, wants to redirect it to something more productive). Sirens start in the distance and it won’t be long before the police arrive, so Superman takes another step as Hood takes another back. Clark doesn’t know if there are lines he shouldn’t be crossing here, they haven’t spoken about this kind of situation and it just feels _different_. This feels like that note taped to his monitor, but worse (and he should really look into that, now that he’s thinking about it). There is a line though, he can definitely feel _that_ , and he shakes himself as silence falls. It’s eerie and stifling, hot with anger and frustration, Clark about coughs through it awkwardly but keeps himself in check as he plans his next moves. Finally, he dives for the other, deciding that if they’re in his city, they get to play by his rules.

Hood, whoever he is, dives back and puts out a grapple line. That’s familiar too, but it’s the way he swings out and around that gets to Clark. He’s starting to realize there’s a trend between these people, flinging themselves off buildings as if they are falling only to fly. He’s been watching Tim learn how to do it and. Well. _Shit_. Being right never felt so awful.

By the time both of them land on the side of another building across the way, Batman is gone and Hood is chuckling. Not the best sound to hear right then and there, and Clark holds up his hands as the lenses of the helmet focus on him. It’s not a white flag, but he’s not willing to move right now and the other doesn’t seem ready to leave. Either way, it’s just another player on the board and Clark has to at least ensure that he doesn’t come back into the city for awhile. This one doesn’t seem Bruce’s style, but the evidence has suggested correlation and Clark feels his chest tighten like it does when he thinks about all the things he has yet to know about why Bruce was alone for so long before the League. This could be that why, couldn't it? Is this the number four that he mentioned?

“Mercenary?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yea, I guess that’s the nice term for it. Didn’t think you’d stop to find out.”

“I always stop to find out. Unless the world is ending,” Clark amends. God, he stands just like him, solid and unmoving as he checks the high amount of gadgets on his person for something to do with his hands. “Who are you?”

“The boogeyman, Supes. Just a shadow in the dark.”

“Should I expect more trouble from you?”

“You’re going to let me go if I say no?” The surprise has an edge to it, like the young man can’t quite believe it. Superman shrugs, turning to face where he’s fairly sure Batman is still watching from, even if he’s not physically there. “Just like that?”

“I’ve never seen him like that. He never says much as it is, but it made my skin crawl. I don’t like it,” Clark states, voice even and quiet. “I don’t think I’d be able to catch you anyways, if you’re determined to be as slippery as a fish about it.”

“I wasn’t even aiming for your guys.”

“I realized. You weren’t even aiming at me, except for once. He hated that by the way, don’t shoot at me anymore. _Please_. But hence the question, if you’re willing to answer it.”

“He doesn’t have friends, but I’ve got no other word for what your League is,” Hood grinds out, still doing a once over of himself. “I wanted to see it. Guy’s an asshole so. I had to see if he actually gave a damn about anything anymore. Read the papers, saw what he was like, and now what? He’s a team player because you died? I don’t believe it for a second because people have died on him in the past and he just gets worse, not better. Same morals for you two maybe, from all I’ve read, but that should be as far as it goes. It’s not, and I’m interested. Not sure what you two are expecting from the world when it’s a dumpster fire and you’re only slapping people on the wrist for things.”

“... You’re not like the others.”

“Ha. And you’re not as dumb as you look if you’ve already figured it out.”

“I’m not just a pretty face and a cape,” Clark offers wryly and that laugh is a bit more confused, but a whole lot more jovial. Young. How old were all these people when they donned the mantle of the Bat? How could Bruce stand it, bringing them into this kind of life so early? Clark is barely getting by in his early thirties. “I have a friend who can get away with this better than I can, but in your case I think it’s necessary to follow in his footsteps. Hood?”

“Yea?”

“Stay out of Metropolis.”

A small flex of his feet and he’s in the air, floating up a bit and leaving a young man in a mask behind him for better or worse. He gets a small salute for his troubles and then is right where the police need him to be, explaining the shootout and realizing that who he has rounded up are a small group of drug traffickers that have eluded capture until then. _Huh_. Clark hadn’t even known they were meeting in this part of town. The steady construction traffic alone should have kept them at bay for fear of being caught. He eyes the skyline for half a second as he leaves it behind, wondering at the implications of that. Instead of any sort of epiphany, however, he gets a jolt of surprise at the crackle of the communicator in his ear and a warm voice.

“Meet me at the Planet building.”

“Right.”

This is _not_ going to be a good conversation and Clark puts it off by doing circles around the building instead of going up in a straight line. Bruce is not impressed by the way he all but stomps out of the shadows to face him, but he really didn’t want to do this right now when he’s still chewing on the gristle of the entire experience.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I could have handled that, you know.”

“You have no idea how to handle that kind of-”

“Excuse me? If I can handle you, I can handle him just fine. Just because you know him doesn’t mean hands off. He was in Metropolis, he started a shootout, and I came in to handle it. _Why did you come?_ Give me a bone here, Bruce. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Because he’s _my_ responsibility,” Batman snaps, teeth bared. Clark doesn’t back down, instead planting his feet hard enough to cause spider cracks in the cement. They’re too close and there’s a roll of something heated along his spine, but his attention is focused elsewhere. God, maybe _this_ is where they meet in the middle, this want to fight it out in a different way other than the fists at their sides. “Because you have no right to interfere.”

“I have _every right_ when it’s here. I’m not even the least bit sorry I stopped in on him,” Clark goes off, words rattling with annoyance at the sheer stubbornness of the man in front of him, hands in the air in frustration. “You and your possessive streak are getting out of hand, Batman. There was a problem, I came in to fix it. That’s what I’m here to do, that’s what we’re _all_ here to do. Look, I get it, you want me to stay out of Gotham because God knows you have a lot of unique characters out that way, but when it starts to leak into the place I call home, I’m going to do something about it.”

He can hear teeth grinding again and Clark has the urge to haul off and hit something. Instead, he crosses his arms and tightens his fingers around his biceps, going white knuckled and vibrating with pent up tension. Bruce doesn’t seem much better, jaw tight and fists coiled on the verge of attack, hunched down to his level to get in his face. He can’t stop him and if he doesn’t stop the tirade about to be unleashed, then he’s just going to end up doing something inappropriate. Clark takes a moment to breathe, in through his nose and out through his mouth like his Pa taught him, and really considers the situation.

“Bruce,” he murmurs after a moment, opening his eyes to take in the springform of Batman across from him. When had he moved closer, stood up straighter? It doesn’t feel like a fight anymore and Clark’s arms drop to Bruce’s sides, tug him in closer to stare up into his eyes. “I don’t know who he is or what he’s done, but it’s easy to tell he’s come out of Gotham, possibly out of the Batcave. I’m sorry if you think I stepped over a line here, but the kid came looking for me, didn’t he. That’s why he was here. How am I not supposed to go?”

_How am I not supposed to go when he’s somehow a part of you?_

It’s unsaid but Clark has the distinct feeling Bruce knows exactly what words he’s meant to say. The only reason he realizes this might be the case is because suddenly there’s dry lips on his, unforgiving but entirely present and aware. Clark mouths right back, pressing close to the armor and letting himself give to it’s hard edges. There are fingers curling around his hips, a dark cape floating around him on the breeze, and he can’t just stop because it feels like something empty inside him is suddenly full. Something has clicked into place and he shudders with it, only pulling away when he hears a cry of distress in the distance.

“I’m sorry, I have-”

“Go. Friday, monitor duty.” Did Batman always sound that hoarse?

“Right. _Yes_. See you then.”

He takes off without even a nod, a bit giddy with everything. Bruce will be long gone by the time he comes back around and really, he’s glad for it. He doesn’t need the reminder of his own heart throbbing to get out of his ribcage, of feeling something slide wetly into place with a realization that this probably wasn’t a crush anymore. Hope folds in around him but he props himself up with the last of his mental stamina and continues on, rescues someone from a knife fight and then a dog from a bramble tangle. He can’t let himself be distracted now, Bruce would never forgive him if he fell off the planet from one little kiss.

_‘He doesn’t have friends’_ sticks with him the rest of the night though. Bruce obviously has friends, the League alone could be considered a working group of them, but maybe not in the way people normally consider the word friend. They battle beside each other, save each other’s lives, but at the end of the day they all go home to their own places of residence and try to work a day job or pretend they aren’t actually a vigilante. There’s also the whole debacle of mentor versus friend, because then he’d have to add in all the young heroes Bruce attracts to this scenario. What he ends up doing is calling that grouping family, just to cut them out of the equation, so that he can try to pare this whole thing down to something simpler.

Right now, with his knees jelly and his brain wrapped in a warm blanket of post-kiss haze, he needs simple.

So what Hood meant was he doesn’t have connections like he has with Clark? Maybe. The truth is that it’s the other way around and Clark is the one that doesn’t have connections while Bruce has far too many. Sure, Superman has teammates and they are great people. He knows their birthdays and work ethics, can rattle off the last four locations they’d been in for missions and what they thought of the scenery if they got to stay long enough to see it. What he couldn’t do is tell anyone about their day to day, about their favorite foods or locations around town (except for Barry because his favorite food is any food). Only two of the team really know the man behind the cape. The Daily Planet affords him some acquaintances, but with his odd schedule and continued distance from Lois, they aren’t exactly people he can rely on to understand the aches that come from saving the world. Those are his connections, enough he can count them on his hands.

What that means, all in all, is that Clark is the one that is going to have to put in a bit of work here to keep from falling into old habits, to keep from depending too much on this new ribbon of hope. He can't rely on Bruce to come in and save him, light up his sky, because the Bat has more on his plate than he does. No, Clark has to save himself this time. He knows he needs to open up to more people, but tonight has shown him just how desperate the situation has become. He has no one to ask questions to about relationships, no one to cheer him on for kissing Bruce with abandon. His Ma can only bear so much. Now he needs a new plan, a new set of things to do to help him keep moving forward. Bruce deserves his best, especially if his life is filled with people like Red Hood, and Clark needs to continue to pick his way out of the maze death left in his head.

Stripping down to his briefs at home in tired determination before coming across a six pack of beer on his table, note attached, Clark just heads for bed. Despite the raised brow as if the bottles could somehow tell him why they are there, they don’t even get a real glance until the next day when he pins said note on his fridge right next to Bruce's. In the morning, it even gets a grin out of him.

> _So not friends. Got it._
> 
> _May the universe help your soul._
> 
> _This one's on me._
> 
> _RH_

Somehow, Clark doesn’t think the beer is poisoned after a note like that, though he does wonder what exactly the young man saw. Mentioning it doesn’t seem wise though, and Clark doesn’t say a thing about it the next time he sees Bruce. Instead, he wraps his arms around his shoulders from behind, scrapes his teeth along his ear in hello, and then floats away as if that didn’t just happen so that he can grab one of the marmalade cookies that are off to the side of the cave. It _totally_ just happened, he’s flushed enough for the both of them, but he likes this new sort of companionship as Bruce grabs his cape from the chair and drags him back for a proper kiss.

This isn’t desperate or gasping in the air from each other’s lungs on a rooftop though; no, it’s slow and tastes of oranges, makes Clark groan softly and realize that even if he was taller, Bruce would always have the upper hand considering the way he’s bent at the waist to accommodate a sitting Batman. If he said he saw stars when Bruce lets him go he’d just be laughed at, but he does and he lets out a happy little laugh as he settles in to watch things go by that night. Not exactly how he thought this would end up, but it’s going good so far.

Good is definitely something he can achieve and Clark starts to wonder if he should send Hood a thank you note for his timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this one a bit faster than expected. Unfortunately though, I also haven't had much time to respond to some of your lovely comments! So to everyone that is reading this fic, those leaving kudos, and those who are chatting with me in the comments, thank you! Your support has made me feel overwhelmingly welcome, despite my beginning knowledge of DC. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has five people on his list but Bruce only said four. Now he has to start all over again.

Four noble truths. Four great elements. Four Heavenly Kings. Four Gospels.

The four corners of the world. The four winds.

Four: a number that signifies stability and Clark finally has time to look into what that means in context to his -- whatever Bruce and he are now. It’s been weeks and a daily reminder attached to his monitor, he should have started this so much sooner, but there hasn’t been _time_. He’s been too busy taking the opportunities granted to him by the League’s monitor schedule to thoroughly explore Bruce, the cave, and even some of the upstairs rooms of the lake house. He’s been helping Alfred unload wood and roofing and pipes for rebuilding Wayne manor. Ma had needed the barn cleaned out for a new season. He’s started to call in bimonthly lunches with Diana, just to make sure they know each other a bit better before the next world ending crisis. He’s been running around after crooked politicians for his day job and then dropping people off for the police to handle during his nightly rounds, and there just isn’t enough hours in the day to still act human enough to keep his identity in check.

It’s clear they’re going glacially slow, but Clark is fine with that considering what he knows about Bruce’s public persona and his own being what it is. Besides, he’s not done this for awhile, the last person he was interested in was Lois and he thinks he may have gone a bit too fast there. So, slow is fine, slow is _good_ , slow gives him butterflies with every stolen kiss and heat straight down his back with every touch of hands.

Besides all that, he’s also been working on himself and maybe he needed to do that before diving in. Perhaps it’s because of his relationship change, but he’s not one to nitpick when it’s in his favor not to, so Clark will just say he’s working on himself because he needs to and he can. His sleep patterns are getting better, his rest more restorative, and because of it, his articles are zinging off the pages in a way they didn’t used to (according to Perry, Lois is convinced he just never really paid attention because he kept putting him on fluff pieces). Not only that but he’s eating a bit better, the vegetables in his fridge now have a friendly relationship with a few types of fruit, and his Ma is no longer trying to send him food through the mail. In fact, Barbara has even stopped sending him coffee. Now he gets snack boxes full of nuts, berries, and other assorted foraged items that come with notes unsigned in calligraphy that is definitely not the scrawl of a young woman -- who may or may not be trying to get him to come down to the Gotham library for lunch someday, if the amount of emails he keeps getting is anything to go by.

Are they trying to one up each other? If they are, he has this awful feeling an outside third party is going to win that particular war, because the look on Bruce’s face when he walks in and Clark is delivered a bouquet of roses ‘for putting up with the bastard’ is priceless. Clark has to excuse himself to the break room to laugh in that instance and he can’t help it. That’s not even subtle and he has a very good idea of who would be that antagonistic towards the poor man he likes to nibble on in his free time.

Tim thankfully hasn’t become involved. _Yet_.

Groaning, Clark rests his forehead on his crossed arms, leaning over his desk enough to hit his keyboard off center. There’s a clue here he’s missing and he just needs to find it in order to break the whole investigation wide open. The note implies there's another person out there with a bat plastered across their chest, but Clark can't find them. All he can find is a grave marker and that doesn't seem to be what Bruce was talking about. A change of plans is what he needs, but he’s just kind of been winging it so change is a mighty strong word for something that never existed in the first place.

“You know, one day I’m going to come back in here and _not_ find you hovering like you don’t want to go home or something,” starts an amused voice tinged with a hardness that comes from knowing him a bit too well and Clark startles enough to hear one of the wheels of his chair crack. Lois raises a brow at him and he smiles, tight. “You seriously didn’t hear me?”

“I was distracted.”

“And suddenly way more interesting than my forgotten jacket, despite it having my keys in it,” she states as she rummages for said article of clothing. Blinking at the sudden new source of light, Clark squints at her desk to help. “What’s got you so twitterpated tonight?”

“Bottom left drawer. And it’s nothing. Just had to finish this edit for-”

“Bull. You’ve been like this for at least a month. You’re not an airhead, but here we are,” Lois snaps, eyes back on him in a second as she slips on her coat. She does hate being lied to, but he’s being honest. Doesn’t mean she sees it that way. “Something’s been up with you all summer. Now come on, you want pancakes?”

“Are you making them?” he asks warily.

“Rude, first of all,” she finally laughs as she tugs his chair towards the elevator. “And second, no I’m not. I know a place.”

He follows her lead, chatting about their days and pushing his thoughts to the back corner of his mind where he lets things stew. It'll come to him, eventually. Maybe he just needs to sleep on it now that he has half a mind to dedicate to it. Right now though, he can get lost in Lois Lane, her expressions open and readable, her gestures large and obvious. With how complicated his life has gotten, it’s a bit of a balm to remember that not everyone’s world is still upside down from his death. Still, as he pauses outside the building, watches as she flags down a cab, Clark realizes he has no desire to make things the way they used to be. This is enough, they have their own lives going on. While his might be upside down right now, it’s getting better and his smile grows as he realizes what this means. He has a _friend_ in Lois and his world reorganizes accordingly. The darkness that sometimes still hangs around his heart on lonely nights recedes a bit more and he jumps into the cab with gusto. Smacked across the face with that revelation, he follows in awe behind her the rest of the way towards the diner.

“I really was just finishing up an edit, Lois. My apartment isn’t as bad as all that. Did I tell you Ma sent over a new quilt? Apparently, one of the ladies in the next town over makes them and wanted me to know she was happy I was not, in fact, dead,” he chuckles as he spins a milkshake around on the table in front of him. “Life is… _good_.”

“Really?” She seems skeptical and he doesn’t blame her. Despite not speaking about what is going on in their personal lives, she still watches him like a hawk to account for his ‘missing’ hours when she has to. She has to have seen the first few roadblocks he encountered, the darkness slipping out at the seams of his smile before he really got a handle on it. “You came back from all that and now it’s just fine and dandy?”

“It was just fine for awhile,” he admits, wilting a little under her stare. When was the last time he poured his heart out again? “But I’ve been working on it. On me. And… Well, I think I have someone to more forward with.”

“Your team, right?” His blush gives him away and Lois’ lips twist before she hesitates on a smile. “ _Oh_. So. That explains a lot, actually. You’re so sweet when you’re smitten. Who’s the lucky person?”

“It’s been complicated.” He holds two fingers up on each side of his head, morphing his face into a grimace. “I am the night kinds of complicated.”

Snorting, Lois relaxes marginally, spins her coffee around between her palms. “That man has you twisted around his little finger, always has. I’ve never seen you so focused on someone. I’m not surprised it’s turned into this.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m not. I mean, _maybe_ I’m a little head over heels but I can function outside that,” he sputters before mumbling, “It’s not his finger I’m probably going to be wrapped around. Don’t laugh at that, that’s not what I meant. You’re as bad as he is. His proteges on the other hand…”

“Huh?”

“Yea, I think they’re doing a bit of snooping now. I had a glitter bomb show up at my apartment that said congratulations on the. Well, we’ll never mind that bit. It’s like an open secret between all of them. They know who I am, I know who they are.” Clark shrugs, realizes that he’s stopped minding that a while ago. It made sense for them to know him in case something happened. “They’re good people. Mostly. I’m still trying to figure one out. Fairly sure B didn’t tell them who I am either, they just _found out_ on their own. Smart, too smart sometimes. _And-_ ”

“Wait.” Her phone is out as soon as he’s said it, one finger in the air to stop him, and she squints at the screen before her gaze flashes up to his with a look of horror. “There’s _more of them_?”

“See. That’s what I said when I first found out.”

“Oh God. See, this is why I don’t keep up with news in Gotham,” Lois laments. “There’s too many things going on between the clowns and the riddles and the Bat. And then these kind of things get pushed to the bottom by bossy dearest. Like this one. Did Wayne adopt another kid? What is that, three? Christ. You poor man having to deal with this guy at work and Ba- _that other man_ at night. How many are there anyhow? Reports seem inconclusive.”

“That’s, uh, what I’m trying to figure out. No exclusives, Lane.”

“Okay. Okay, fine. I won’t get involved, but if you’re serious about this, about him, then you need to find out.” Lois looks like she’s sucked on a lemon suddenly and then shakes her head. “Follow your heart? That sounds so cliche but you know what, you’d pull it off somehow. I don’t know, he’s a busy guy, you’re a busy guy, but if you’re serious then you need to find out about him and let him find out about you. That’s how relationships work, normally.”

“I don’t think this is going to be normal, Lo. And we’re already trying that bit.”

“No kidding. Christ. Well, he’s already met your mother, so at least you don’t have to worry about that.” Clark chokes on his milkshake, hadn’t even considered those parts of his life intermingling just yet. “Whoever the flying wonders that follow after him are, you definitely need to make sure they meet her too. _Before_ she finds out through the news.”  

Blinking rapidly as Lois continues on mentioning things he should be doing to start off with, he starts to frown a bit. What she’s suggesting is knowing him outside the suit, but he can’t exactly do that for the very reason she doesn’t keep up with news in Gotham. Bruce Wayne is splashed on so many magazines and tabloids that if he was seen with a mild mannered reporter from Metropolis, that would cause havoc on his public image. Besides, wasn’t that whole persona a setup to get into places Batman couldn’t? Just like being a journalist allowed Clark certain liberties that another job could not, though he doesn’t think there’s any performance going on when he walks into work day in and day out. She is right about one thing though, they’re going to have to figure that bit out, because yea he’d seen that article. Tim is officially becoming a Wayne, or at least the newspapers have finally caught onto that fact. They'll eventually catch on to him. Worrying, but being in the job he is, he knows they’re just doing their best.

Lois’ phone goes off and she lights up like a Christmas tree. Clark grins at her, but knows it’s now only a matter of time before she’s out the door and he needs a few minutes to himself anyways. He has a lot to go through and now is as good a time as any to think.

“I have to run. Excuse me, can I have this coffee to go please?”

“Need a lift somewhere?”

“No thanks, Smallville. I need a way to get home afterwards, so you just finish your drink and head out when you’re ready. And think about what I said, okay? You’ve been off kilter too long at this point that people are going to notice. Heart eyes tend to draw attention.”

Her wink has him flushing and Clark laughs to himself, hunching his shoulders and sinking into his seat. The coffee doesn’t have a name written on it when it’s left at the table, but it doesn’t need any as Lois snaps it up and disappears. There are times he misses the surprise of finding one of those on his desk from Barbara and. _Wait_. Freezing, Clark double blinks. Four of them. That means DG, the person on the coffee cups, is who exactly? Wouldn’t that bring it up to four at last? No. That would bring it up to five, technically, but he's sure Bruce isn't counting someone he can't meet (may the boy rest in peace). Digging out his phone as he tosses a few bills on the table for payment and tip, Clark is standing outside when the wikipedia page for Bruce Wayne loads. Kids, adoption, ah there they are. Richard Grayson. If he were to bet anything, D stands for Dick and he puffs out a laugh.

“Well then.”

A car alarm brings him out of his shock and Clark takes off, changing in a blur as he disappears into the night to stop a few B&Es. He had the right count of people in Bruce’s life, but until recently he had assumed the only one missing in the lineup was the one that had passed away. It hadn’t seemed right to go looking through those articles, but now he’s not real sure if he can avoid it. Right, so, which one was Hood? From the pictures he finds, Clark can assuredly say that Hood is not this particular young man. Once he’s scanning images though, he finds one of a Jason Todd and almost throws up. If ever there was a time he _didn’t_ want something in common with one of Wayne’s boys, this would be it. No wonder the young man was so different.

Maybe he had a void inside his chest too.

 _Another problem for another day,_ Clark thinks with a shake of his head to focus. Right. Grayson. Now he’s going to have to go find the man, introduce himself properly because this just wouldn’t do for Bruce’s eldest. If Clark is going to be with Bruce, he’s going to do it right and this feels like a giant misstep from way back when the darkness was still eating at him every day, where fighting it seemed like a waste of time when it would just keep going and going and going. Now, with friends on his side and his head a little better with the changes he’s made in his life, it’s time to take a few steps to prove he’s ready for whatever Bruce is willing to throw at him. He doesn’t know if it’ll be stepping over a line to reach out to Dick without his knowledge, but he’s _kind of_ given permission right?

Right. He’ll do it tomorrow and he drifts down to his balcony and enters, only hears the flutter of paper on the breeze after he’s inside. Who would tape it to the _outside_ of his window? New handwriting, new length too, this one scratchy and scrawled as if hurried. A bit ink blotted as well, and Clark knows for a fact it’s a fountain pen that’s caused the stains.

 

 

>   _Mr. Kent,_
> 
> _Apparently this is how we contact you?_
> 
> _I’d like to study some artifacts that were recovered from LexCorp. We’ll need your help in doing so, as B said you’d probably be the only one currently able to read the writing on them. Also, I’m assuming you know a fair bit more about what these things were used for, even if they’re in pieces. I think I have a fairly good understanding of how to interact with them, but haven’t been able to make the needed structures yet._
> 
> _Also, please call Dick. He’s furious he’s the last one to meet you and won’t stop texting me. He’s driving me insane._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Tim Drake_

Will Bruce stop telling people they need to write him letters to get his attention? For Heaven’s sake, he can respond just as well to a text, the man _knows_ that. Just because he prefers paper and pen for his notes doesn’t mean that’s all he ever uses or that he’s some sort of recluse who doesn’t know how to use technology at all. He's going to have to have words with that man. _Again_. Right now though he has another person to worry about and he sighs, glad for the confirmation at least that yes, DG means Dick Grayson.

 

Have Tim text me next time he has a free minute

**Wayne**

Why?

Because he asked me a question and I want to give him an answer

**Wayne**

What question? I’ll tell him.

I can always stop by, if you’d prefer to supervise

**Wayne**

I’d just like to know what exactly he’s asking you about.

Alien stuff

[Incoming call] … [Call Declined]

**Wayne**

Pick up your damn phone, Kent.

I’m actually in bed

**Wayne**

And that keeps you from answering your phone?

Sometimes

**Wayne**

…

That doesn’t dignify a response.

Yet here we are good night, Bruce ❤

**Wayne**

Stop that. Don’t use emojis with me.

 

Sleep tight [Bat emoji]

 

**Wayne**

Very funny. 

 

Tossing the phone towards his nightstand on top of this evenings note, Clark figures he has a good chance of finding a batarang somewhere in his apartment in the morning. Until then, he’ll just make sure his windows and doors are locked. Not that it’s stopped Batman before but he likes to give the other a challenge (and if it’s not a challenge then at least he tried and Bruce can laugh at him later in that warm, soft way he has when Clark gets excited about putting together a puzzle that he’s had solved for the past five minutes). To make it slightly more difficult, he finds some string from a sewing kit his mother had sent him ages ago and carefully sets up pieces of it across each entry way before he settles down to sleep. If one’s disturbed, he’ll know which way Bruce or whoever came in. 

Somehow, he’s not surprised when he finds all the strings looped together to hang a note off his front door, which is quickly transferred to the growing number on his fridge. He hadn’t expected it to work, but it had shown some forethought about his own safety that  _ surely  _ Batman could appreciate. 

> _ Friday. Dinner is at 6pm. Alfred’s making pasta. _
> 
> _ Tim has your number now. Try not to be late.  _
> 
> _ This is not what your mother gave you that kit for. _


	6. Intermission: A Week in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, things just continue on as if they were never any different. Maybe it's not so bad to have a routine of sorts. Maybe, just maybe, it's also not the superhero parts that mean much.

_Monday_

Also known as ‘Perry’s best day of the week’ because he enjoys watching his employees suffer, stumbling in past his office in bleary hazes and possible hangovers. Rolling out of bed is harder when he knows he’ll be yelled at for being early, but then again he’ll also get a bit of a hard time if he’s late. Mondays he really can’t win. He needs to go for that run he started doing as the sun rose though and it’s helping him find some sort of inner peace, so he doesn’t snooze his alarm more than once. Pushing himself up and out through will alone, Clark jogs easily through the nearby streets that are just waking up. It’s good practice on keeping himself at everyone else’s speed and he grins at the incoherent text that he gets from Bruce in response to his cheery good morning one, tapping his watch (that the man gave him for exactly this kind of thing, don’t get huffy with him) to remove the notification.

He stops for coffee on the way back, changing at work and setting down a cup of something sugary and covered in caramel in front of Lois. She’s hugging it to her chest as she writes down something in scratches he can’t read and his head goes down until the pitch meeting. A sticky note is tapped to his forehead before they go and he has no idea what Lois’ has written on it, but he’s sure he’ll be able to decipher it before the meetings end.

Tim shows up for lunch four hours later and Clark has to pick his jaw up from the floor. Of all the guesses of people he would see when he looked up from his work, not a single one of them would have been Tim Drake. Isn’t he supposed to be in school? Actually, yes, _yes he is_. Clark grabs his jacket and the kid, his co-workers pretending not to stare as he drags them both to the elevator, before texting Alfred about a stray bird he’s caught. One burger later, practically shoving caffeine down the other’s throat to account for how little sleep Robin got the night before, and he’s tumbling him into a fancy car next to an exasperated Bruce.

“What the hell, Tim.”

“He doesn’t have all the information. That article he’s writing, the one he was telling you about the other night. I have proof that-”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay out of the office when we’re working?” Clark chimes in softly, leaning down to peek into the car. Lips twitch at the aghast face of the teenager and Bruce growls at him too, but he can’t help it. “If you have something, send it to me.”

“It's already on your desk.”

“What do you mean it’s on my desk? You weren’t there five minutes. How did you get anything on my desk?”

This time it’s Bruce’s turn to hide his smile and Clark shuts them into the car with a roll of his eyes. He did not sign up for this, except he sort of did and he’s floating (figuratively, except for the first few steps up to the building) most of the day afterwards. Lois stares at him when he comes back up and he shrugs, not sure what to say that wouldn’t give everything away for the family he’s starting to get just as protective of as his own. There’s little room for anything else in his chest and he forgets that there’s a darkness there, defeating it without difficulty. Sometimes it’s better to just smile and get back to work.

 

\--

_Tuesday_

The worst day of the week. _Nothing_ happens on Tuesdays, Clark is sure they’re there to be just as awful as Mondays but without the knowledge of Wednesdays that the week is half over. Stop a robbery at lunch, interrogate a judge in the evening, and he’s shouldering open his apartment door later than he’d like, taking the note off the front of it. He drops his bag, checks the shoes in the hallway for anyone else he may not know about, and then leans into the kitchen briefly to throw a comment to the young lady at the table there, holding up her message.

“You have to stop breaking in. My neighbors are going to notice.”

“I have a key, I cloned it from the one Bruce was given. Besides, the only neighbor that’s said anything is that Ms. Jones down the hallway. And _that’s_ because she’s pissed that you’re not going to sleep with her now that you’re dating someone with kids.”

“Please tell me that is not a conversation you’ve had with her and it’s just an observation.”

“It’s just an observation,” Barbara mimics, staring him dead in the eye. “It was not a conversation.”

Groaning, Clark goes to change and then flops into a chair right next to her, pushing her books out of the way for his own laptop so that he can try to arrange lunch with Dick for next month, when he’s not in police bootcamp. She’s been in Metropolis on and off for the last few weeks because there’s an archival exhibit from Gotham touring their public libraries, and it seems that also means she’s in and out of his apartment too. Not that he minds, it’s interesting to find her there when he least expects it. Despite the regularity of it and him having figured out exactly why she is in Metropolis in the first place on his own, she refuses to say why it’s his _apartment_ that has become work central. Maybe today he can pry it out of her with promises of food.

“You want Chinese or me to cook?”

“... What are you making?”

“Ma’s chicken pot pie.”

“That. I want that. I’ll even help.”

“You don’t have to if you just tell me-”

“Internet.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You ask every time I’m here, Clark. It’s your internet, it’s faster than the hotel’s. I can’t afford a fancy place where that wouldn’t matter and this is a Wayne property so it’s all fiber. Once I have myself setup in Metropolis somewhere, you won't find me at your kitchen table anymore.”

“I don’t mind,” Clark starts before pausing as he reviews what she’s said. “I’m sorry, what did you just say about my building.”

She doesn’t repeat herself, but she does sink down behind her screen as if he can’t just x-ray through it. Okay, so Bruce owns his apartment building, that’s… _new_ . Seriously, the man has to stop buying things. This is getting ridiculous. They've talked about this, though mostly in relation to his wardrobe. Yes it’s a cover but it’s a cover that requires him being oblivious to it, unlike _some_ people who have diamonds on their watchface. Now they have to add buildings to the list? Face in his hands, Clark rubs at his eyes before getting up. Dinner, dinner is something he can do without having to think about why he has such a good monthly rent for this city.

“Damn that man.”

“Pretty sure you don’t mean that.”

“Do you want food or not?”

“Right.” Barbara mimes locking her lips, though the smile behind the gesture is laughing at him. “Hey, do you know anything about the mob in Metropolis? I’m, uh, running a report for someone. Not like, anyone you know or anything. Just someone.”

It’s going to be a long evening.

 

\--

_Wednesday_

Waking up that morning, he didn’t think he’d be stopping an invasion of parasitic larva. He may have gone back to bed if he did.

If he _never_ has to clean guts out of his hair again, it will be too soon. He might have nightmares about the way they burrowed into people and he vomits not long after getting back to the cave. Bruce lets him stay the night though, curled up on the office sofa. Listening to the muted typing of Bruce on a tablet at his side and the stories Alfred has about before he became the Wayne butler is a good way to end that kind of day. Clark drinks tea until he’s out cold with a blanket over him. He never figures out who put it there but he does wake up to pancakes. Win, win.

 

\--

_Thursday_

The paper missed a major story about an explosion outside the city during the whole larva fiasco and they’re paying for it, Perry snapping at people left and right. They need to know what it was, if it was caused by the invasion or not. Clark gets away only twice to help with a crash on the interstate and a physical assault by the docks. Lunch is a hurried affair at his desk before Lois and him dash off for an interview with someone from LexCorp, the only property damaged. Suspicious doesn’t begin to cover it and they share a look as they head back to the Planet after what might as well have been a dismissal. Lois doubles back to try a different approach on her end and he goes to find a place to change.

There’s a brush of shoulders and a young man with a shock of white in his hair grins toothily at him, coming out of the alley he’s going into. Gone in the crowd before Clark gets a good look at him, it’s a blip on his radar as he pulls off his tie and activates his communicator. By the time he’s heading back, Diana is already on her way over from Paris to help him dig through the wreckage and Bruce’s fingers can be heard flying across a keyboard past the company’s firewalls. Teamwork.

When he gets back to his apartment, he doesn’t remember the teen but does find a sticky note on the back of his civilian shirt that says ‘kick me.’ Well then. At least tomorrow’s Friday.

 

\--

_Friday_

Even Superman gets uncomfortable in hard backed desk chairs. Hands going to rub at his lower back, Clark leans until he’s looking up at the ceiling, balancing on a damaged wheel base and rolling out his neck. He has a few hours before he has to be at the cave and he should probably grab dinner before that. Bruce had messaged him earlier to say he had a meeting that would probably run late and while Clark adores Alfred, he would like to give him a break now and then when he can. Counting the tiles above him, he starts down the road of fast food places nearby before he’s met with a pair of familiar evening eyes and a steady heartbeat. He’d heard the door open to this floor but assumed it was the janitor.

“I thought you had a meeting.”

“I did. In Metropolis. Come to dinner with me.”

There’s no one there and perhaps that’s for the best. From this angle, Bruce looks a bit wild around the eyes as if he’s found out something he doesn’t like and it’s driven him here. Clark goes to right himself, to ask what’s wrong, but finds himself in a liplock instead. It’s awkward being upside down for this but he rolls with it, shoulders relaxing before he shifts and breaks the kiss so that he can spin around to do it properly. One of Bruce’s knees ends up between his thighs on the chair to steady them as fingers wind through hair and around hips. It’s not his fault he doesn’t hear the ding of the elevator and Bruce has to hear it too, but it doesn’t stop him. The yelp does though and they break apart, Clark perhaps a bit more tousled than he should be, a warm hand having slid under the collar of his shirt (and when had that come unbuttoned).

“Oh. My. GOD.” Lois knows about Batman and enough about Clark to know he’d rather die than cheat on someone. Clark goes to stand but Bruce is having none of it, knee pressing forward just slightly to make him stay in place, slammed back into a haze by the sudden curl of heat in his stomach.

“I’m disappointed you didn’t put it together until now, Lane. You’ve met Alfred on multiple occasions, it should have been obvious.”

“Think of the situations we were in and then tell me I should have noticed. There is no way this is happening.”

“Lois. Please.”

“If I don’t get to break this story, I’ll be pissed.”

“There’s no story here.”

“I care to differ, Mister Wayne. Shy farm boy catches eye of Gotham's prince? That is _absolutely_ a story, especially since we’ll have to spin out a disaster on how you two met or it won’t make much sense why you even looked twice.”

“I’m sorry, have you _seen_ him?” Oh God no, _please_ don’t let this be happening. “Or do you mean why _he_ looked twice. Frankly, Miss Lane, I don’t think I can take that as a compliment.”

“Lovers across the bay. It’s damn near Shakespearean.”

That is not the way Clark thought that idea was going to end, leaving him blinking owlishly at the two in front of him that are now arguing over the details. It’s not like he has much _ability_ to think anyways, what with Bruce’s fingers still stroking through his hair. Humming low in his throat, he nips at the wrist closest to him and stands at last, wrapping his arm around Bruce’s waist and grabbing his bag to tug both out the door.

“Have a good night, Lois.”

“So what, do I need to like call your people first? Do I need to make an appointment now?”

“See you next week, Lois.”

“I _will_ be the first one to share this with the world, Kent.”

“Have a good weekend, Lois.”

“I know where you live!”

 

\--

_Saturday_

Alfred draws the drapes and sunlights filters through the room, much to his disapproval as he curls more into Bruce’s chest and groans. That seems to pause the only one awake in the room, as if he hadn’t actually expected someone else to be there. Well look at that, they _finally_ surprised the unsurpriseable. Instead of celebrating, Clark just buries his nose into the warm neck above him and hides. Wishing he had something more on than the sheet and Bruce right about now, even if both are quite nice to have over him.

“Alfred,” Bruce grunts out from under a pillow, voice dry and cracking around the edges. “No.”  

“Of course Master Bruce. Breakfast in bed, perhaps?”

“Get. Out.”

“Right away, Sir. And if I may, since it seems I missed it last night… Welcome back, Master Clark.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

“ _Out!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I made myself laugh with it. We're getting to the end, slowly but surely. Three more chapters to go!


	7. Known Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing ever seems to go as planned, you'd think he'd get used to that.

He’s an ever loving idiot and Clark gurgles out a unamused laugh as he starts to free fall, blood filling his mouth. Today is not his day. 

He’s going to be late for lunch with Dick. 

After all the changes they’ve had to make to their schedules to finally find a time to meet up too. But there hasn’t been time to call him or backup because there had been a missile in the air right then, right there. It had only surfaced that morning that Lex had gotten out of jail, and he hadn’t thought - it hadn’t seemed possible - surely there wasn’t enough time for a plan like  _ this  _ to take shape. He can hear the ' _ You need to not to rush into things headfirst _ ’ in the back of his head as he plummets, whistling wind soon blocking out everything else as his mind numbs. 

Activating his distress signal is his last coherent action and he aims as best he can through the pain for someplace in the abandoned buildings surrounding Luthor’s ‘country’ facility. This isn’t the country though, and there’s plenty of neighborhoods around that he could royally damage if he’s not careful. He’s starting to wonder if Luthor plans on his destruction to further his agenda. Well, he won’t get the satisfaction today and Clark tries not to think of how much it’s going to hurt to crash land with the spikes of crystal through his shoulder, wrist, and possibly embedded in a kidney. A roar sounds in the distance and he gives up trying to slow himself down, to get back out there to fight, glad someone made it (sounds like Diana and a very unhappy Diana at that, poor souls). She can handle Lex. He should be able to handle himself for the time being. 

Going limp is supposed to  _ help  _ with impact but it still feels like he breaks a lot of somethings. His head hits hard and Clark rolls into a steel girder that bends around him in mockery of a catch. He’s leaking everywhere, red spilling out around him like his cape, and he wonders at the blackness clouding his vision. No,  _ no _ , he’s dealt with that. He doesn’t want to go back to that void and he struggles to flop onto the floor instead of hung up in the wall like a damaged art piece. There’s the vague awareness that someone is shouting his given name through a crackle of static but he can’t be sure, his hearing can’t be expanded past his own shaky heartbeat and shocked gasps for air he can’t seem to get enough of. Everything feels chunky, from his swallows to his movements as he tries to roll and finds he can’t even shift his weight to his side. There’s something pushing him though, and Superman coughs up more blood in an attempt to clear his lungs. 

“Oh God,” murmurs a frantic voice far too close and there’s black gloves that settle into his limited slice of vision, fins on them familiar. “Come on, come on. Roll over. Jesus, Babs said you were huge but she failed to mention heavy. Superman, stay with me.” 

A grunt and he’s pushing up on his elbows to brace himself as his new ally takes the largest chunk of kryptonite out of his shoulder blade, followed quickly by the one in his side. The one in his wrist is lodged in bone and it takes longer to get that one out with a slick squish that has him collapsing back down to the floor again to press his cheek onto the cool concrete. Good, that’s nice, the through and through should heal eventually and he can work with that, starts to focus on not throwing up from the shakes that overtake him. He’s still fading in and out, but his body is jolting with sensations, muscles contracting and willing him to coil up tight to protect itself from further damage. Can he even get into a ball from this position, spread eagle on his front? Not-Batman certainly can’t get him back to his side right now but he’s slowly gaining awareness.

“Can you stand?” 

“‘on’t kno,” he slurs hoarsely, letting the man try to help him. It takes longer than it should, he just can’t get command over his body no matter how much he tries. Eventually though, they do get him sitting. Okay, so familiar fins but not a familiar face, fuzzy though it is. “‘on’t kno yo’ either.” 

“Wow, you suck at talking when you’re injured. Let’s get you someplace safe, huh? God, he’s _so_ going to kill me if you end up dead on my watch.” There’s an explosion sound in the distance and Clark squints, feels his body start to heal sluggishly as kryptonite is kicked away from him. “ _Okay_ _then_. Sounds like he’s just going to destroy things. Huh. Well, never say he doesn’t do anything for the people he cares about.”

“Who...” 

“Nightwing. Boy, is this not the way I wanted to meet  _ you _ . Tim got to meet you  _ weeks  _ ago, do you know how frustrating that is? Not just meet, work with. And don’t get me started on Barbara. She’s been bothering me about it for months, but why should I be the one to call? Not that he’s likely to call me after. You know what, no. I think I deserve a proper introduction. Dinner. To be wooed a bit for approval.” 

“Tim?” 

“Poor kid doesn’t know what he’s getting into but hey. He impressed  _ me _ . Wait. You know Tim. About yea high, thirteen or fourteen now I guess, has an affinity for wandering around after Batman in a cape now that he’s finished his training. You do remember him right?” 

“I rem’mber.” 

“Sure you do. That green stuff really did a number on your head, didn’t it. Well, and your arm. Let’s never have to repeat that, okay?” Nightwing continues on as he all but drags Clark out of the building. They do eventually get his feet under him, but he’s mostly dead weight on the kid’s shoulders. “This side of town is mostly derelict, I’m going to have to get you someplace else before we remove the rest of that stuff from your chest. I also need tweezers for that. What did you do, take a missile to the face?” 

“Actually, yes.” Oh good, his esophagus has healed. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” 

Nightwing stares as they stop in the street, or at least Clark thinks he does. It’s hard to tell behind the domino mask and he suddenly just wants to sleep as realization dawns. 

As soon as those thoughts start, their footsteps do again as well and he’s being hauled into a car that’s too slick and too low to be anything but custom. Actually, it’s a very familiar car and he has just enough wherewithal to recognize Alfred’s voice saying, “manual control engaged” before cutting out and returning to what must be one hell of a battle if Bruce has also joined in. Right, Nightwing has said something about destroying things. It’s taken care of, he just needs to focus on breathing. Briefly, his eyes fall closed and Clark can almost hear his name again on the edges of his senses, a growl that sounds like the middle of an in progress threat. 

“Stay awake, Supes.” 

“You’re one of his kids,” he gasps, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to focus. “Aren’t you?” 

“You. You don’t know who I am?” 

“I’m… gonna be late for lunch.” 

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Dick offers incredulously, gunning the engine and squealing through the narrow streets. His face is marred with a frown but soon the edges kick up as if it can’t stick, as if he’s found something fondly funny and irritating. “I can’t believe you just said that. That’s what you’re worried about? Man, don’t even worry about it, we’ll grab something later. Just don’t pass out on me, that’s so much worse when you have a head injury.” 

“It’ll be fine if it’s me.” 

“It’s not  _ fine _ ,” Dick yaps, shaking his head. “Just because you heal from it doesn’t mean it’s okay. I have to deal with one self sacrificing idiot, please do not make it two. Oh God, this is why you like each other isn’t it. So you can do the sacrificing thing  _ together _ .” 

“You sound mystified.” 

“I am traumatized,” Dick announces loudly, reaching over to pat his cheek none too gently. “No sleeping.” 

“Then you’ll need to keep talking. Give me something to focus on.” 

“I’ve been monitoring that facility since you, well. Did the thing with the coffin and the Mother Box. I had assumed you’d be in touch if you were in the area, even if we hadn’t been introduced properly yet, but if you didn’t know about the Nightwing thing then that explains a lot. I mean, you seem to know  _ me _ . Anyways. The facility has been locked down since Lex went to prison, we haven’t been able to pull anything from it and infiltration needs a bit more than just me for someplace that big. Batgirl has been helping me ping their systems from Metropolis, but so far we only knew they were experimenting with mech suits. We were going to send the information to B, but holy Jehovah Witnesses has he been a pain recently. All ‘stay out of the case, we have it handled’ and ‘you have no idea what you’re dealing with’ and ‘what do you mean I can’t know who you’re having lunch with’ blah, blah, blah.” 

“Lex has a mech suit? Great,” Clark mumbles only responding to what he feels comfortable touching in those sentences, starting to peel pieces of his suit away to dig out glowing, green fragments from his skin. He’s not healing much, he needs to do  _ something _ before he bleeds out. It burns to touch them, slices opening up on his fingertips, and Dick is looking at him in horror from the corner of his eye as he does so, but if they’re under the seat it’s better than in him, right? “And here I was concerned that he was going to try and do something dumb. Man needs to stop drinking the idiot juice.” 

“You can always count on the people that hate you to do everything in their power to beat you down to their level,” Dick offers as they take a turn and jerk to a stop. “You more so because you can  _ fly _ . Now let's get you out of here and contain that rock, shrapnel thing.” 

“Kryptonite is a crystal.” 

“You’d think it’d be prettier considering that classification. It just looks like poison to me.” 

“Well it is, but only to me. Don’t make me laugh,” Clark snorts out, wincing as his head throbs and a dull ache radiates through his bones. He holds his side and stumbles out of the car as best he can, slamming the door to get the stuff even further away from him. Healing is helping, but he’s still got a long way to go. Nightwing vaults over the roof to end up under his arm, steadying him. At least his own feet can take more of his weight now, he knows he’s not exactly a small man. “Besides, I’m sure if given the chance, plenty of very specific people would want it dangling around their neck like any gemstone. Nice watch maybe, pair of iron knuckles.” 

“A spear that should have never been made because he couldn’t look past the ‘otherness’ of someone trying to help? Not that he listens to me, though I guess you’re dating now so it couldn’t have been that unforgivable. Just horrifying for the rest of us.” 

Clark remains silent as he’s led inside, tipped into an elevator and then through a door to be left in a chair in a relatively nice kitchen. Tweezers are immediately attacking his side and he stares at the young man with much more curiousness. Black hair, reinforced suit, a few blades at his waist that can easily be called upon to fly through the air, and a grapple gun at his hip. While in Hood he could see Batman standing before him and Tim he can imagine a bit of Bruce Wayne, this man he couldn’t see anything but what little he knows of  _ Robin _ . Spritely, sturdy, and with a fierceness that would make him the best of partners to someone like the Bat ooze from him with a confidence that most people just don’t have. Dick comes across as casting a shadow just as large as Batman, though perhaps that kind of reference to darkness didn’t apply to him as his tongue gets caught between his teeth as he works. He looks well adjusted, surprisingly so, and the lines in his face are from smiling instead of frowning. 

More and more slivers of kryptonite are removed and slowly, Clark feels his head clear, his bones start to mend. Rolling out his neck, he starts to help, pointing out the pin pricks in his skin and flexing here and there to push them through the skin that is already trying to heal over. (Dick seems absurdly giddy when he does things like that, as if he’s meeting someone he’s always wanted to, and Clark has to hide a grin.) All the while, words flow easily between the two and he learns all about what’s been going on in Bludhaven. It’s nothing good but it’s steady work, the work of a hero. Superman can’t help but smile proudly this time. 

“I want to thank you,” he offers as a lead box is snapped shut and the air stops being the consistency of chewy caramel (he’ll ask later about the lead box, it seems too many people have them these days). He’ll need a lot of rest and moving still hurt, ugly swatches of blood caught under his skin running across his shoulder and stomach, but he’ll live. His wrist is actually wrapped, splinted, and could probably use a bit of extra time. “You didn’t have to bring me into your home when you don’t really know me, but you did. Middle of the day too.” 

“It’s no problem. You’re  _ Superman _ . Pretty sure I can trust you.” 

“Clark, please,” he groans, shaking his head and holding out a hand. “You’re the first one I’ve got to introduce myself to properly.” 

“Wow.” It’s said so softly, as if Dick hasn’t meant it to slip out as he grabs his hand with both his own, gives it the biggest shake he can. “Dick. I mean Grayson.  _ Richard _ . My name is Richard Grayson.” 

“Well Dick, if I may call you that,” he offers, watching the other’s head bob rapidly, “Looks like you have everything here under control. I’m sure by now things have settled, and while I’d like to grab some lunch still, I don’t think now is the best time. I should check in, make sure we haven’t caused any more damage to your city.” 

“You mean anymore than anyone else has? But no, I mean yes. Let’s reschedule.” Dick peels off his mask, blinking bright eyes up at him and Clark realizes that when he told Lois the family Bruce has would only have to suggest something for him to do it, he was stating facts not predictions. “You have a comm? I have one somewhere if you don’t.” 

Chuckling, Clark puts a hand up to his ear to make the call only to find his communicator in fact missing, and his eyes go wide.  _ Oh no _ . He’s about to make his apologies and try to rush off when a shadow darkens the balcony and the power goes out. In the middle of the day, it doesn’t do much, but who knows what kind of security the building now no longer has in place. The strangled noise of annoyance that comes from the young man at his side and the way both of them fall into the defensive back to back makes Clark reassess the situation, wincing as he attempts to not tip over. With how easy it is to fall in line with Nightwing, it makes Clark wonder if he’s been training  _ beside  _ or  _ by  _ Bruce all this time. Both probably as he registers the familiar cowl and bulk of said Bat making an entrance through the window. God, can he never just use the door? 

“You could have used the  _ door _ . You have a  _ key _ .” That answers that question. 

“Nightwing.” They’re being watched, their postures recorded for prosperity. Clark swears he sees a quirk of Bruce’s lips, even as the other’s eyes darken at the markings still visible on his skin. Sometimes, the suit just needs time to mend, but it does make it very obvious he’s not okay, especially when pulling himself up to standing causes his face to contort in pain. 

“Update on the situation?” Clark requests to try and put off that conversation, stepping forward to ease the tension that is slowly filling the room. He stumbles and catches himself, hand to his side. “I lost my communicator in the fall” 

“I saw.” The device is placed back in his ear for him by deft fingers, hair being brushed to the side before the hand is gone. That is definitely hard worry underneath those words. “You didn’t answer when called. I brought the plane, I can take you home, I’ve already picked up the car. We’ve just been a bit busy in your absence. I’ve also collected all the kryptonite you left behind at the facility. Guessing what was scattered around the floor of that abandoned factory came out of you?” 

“Most likely. Thank you.” Nope, not awkward at all. “Update?” 

“Wonder Woman and Aquaman have contained Luthor. Cyborg is pulling information from the facility servers and it’ll be available at the cave shortly. As I said, I’ve confiscated or destroyed all materials that may be harmful to the general or not so general population. Flash is making the rounds to ensure no one else was caught in the crossfire.” 

“Did he really have a mech suit?” 

Eyes turn towards Dick and Clark admits that he’s already forgotten that is a possibility. Batman seems to be unsurprised by the question. He’ll never know how much or how little the other man knows, not when his expression is as blank as wallpaper in a new house. Shaking his head, Clark leans into the other man as an arm slides around his waist to take his weight, grins as he considers both mentor and ward in the same room. Father and son? He’s going to have to ask what is appropriate to call the two. 

“If he did, we’ll figure out how to counteract it in time,” he announces, putting on his best Superman voice and smile. “For now, if you will Nightwing, send over what information you have and we’ll combine it with what Cyborg pulls. If a sweep of the facility has already been done, then it looks like it’s time to head out of Bludhaven.” 

“Yea, sure Superman,” Dick says with a bounce on his feet, smile lighting up again. “Whatever I can do to help.” 

“It’s Clark, Dick,” he reminds gently, and he can feel the shift of kevlar under his fingers as Bruce starts to turn away with a huff. He removes himself, having lingered long enough, and shadows the other towards the balcony. One foot in front of the other, that’s all he has to do. “Unfortunately, we probably shouldn’t use the door this time but if I’m in the area, I’ll stop by. And if you’re ever in Metropolis, feel free to swing by the Daily Planet for lunch.” 

“Really?” The excitement is tangible and Clark nods once, stepping out. 

“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Bruce murmurs to him once the door is shut, lifting his grapple only to have Clark put his hand on his wrist. He pauses, allows for the slight if only because now he’s staring at the splint on his wrist and the blossom of blood that’s peeking through the gauze. “He’s never going to leave you alone now.” 

“All of them are welcome in whatever space I occupy,” Clark murmurs, wincing slightly as Bruce slides an arm around his waist again. Finally, he sags and lets himself be grappled up the building to the roof where the Batwing is waiting. “I just hope they don’t have to do what Nightwing just did while there.” 

“How many fragments?” 

“Too many to count. Three main chunks, but I’m guessing those are the ones you collected on your way over,” Clark admits, slouching into the seat Bruce tucks him into with a hum. The adrenaline of that initial rush of healing is wearing off and he’s trying to stay awake the best he can. “Through and through to my shoulder, embedded in my side, and then I think I may have shattered my wrist with one.” 

“Christ, Clark. What have I said about-” 

“Charging in without a plan or backup? To not do it,” he murmurs sleepily, shifting as they take off and reaching out to curl his hand around where Batman’s is on the wheel. “I had backup, technically.” 

“No, you didn’t. Diana and I were still minutes out and the only reason we knew what was happening is because Dick pinged me. Arthur and Flash didn’t know about any of it until you hit your distress signal. Lex is far more dangerous to you than any of us, you can’t just run off without someone in the city with you.” 

“Bludhaven has a hero, Bruce.” A concerned gaze flickers to him at last and Clark smiles as bright as he can. “I had Nightwing.” 

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t  _ what _ ? They’re great, Bruce. They’re. I just want you to know.” 

“Stop. I-” Bruce cuts himself off and then huffs again, annoyance flaring his nose. “I get it. You’re a family man and you like them. They like you. Maybe more than they like me.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Jason sent you  _ roses _ , Kent.” 

“To piss  _ you  _ off. If you didn’t notice, they also were suspiciously noxious and I had to get rid of them almost instantly,” he laughs softly only to begin coughing dryly and wincing with it.  _ Worth it _ . “Bruce, I may like your kids, more so as I learn more about them, but I’m in love with you. I know it’s hard to believe, but it really is that simple. I’m a simple kind of guy.” 

The plane dips and Clark feels his stomach go with it, choking a bit as he shudders with the sudden drop in altitude. It makes his head spin and he has to put his hand up to try and stop it from falling right off, closing his eyes tight as he attempts to not be sick in his lap. Groaning slightly, he feels warm leather press him back against the seat with a gentle push to his forehead, then brush through his hair and over his cheek. When he checks out of the corner of his eye, Bruce is staring at him. He smiles again, fainter this time as he curls up to rest. He’s safe here and it’s the best feeling in the world. Slowly, he slips off to sleep, even if it should only take a half hour to get back to Metropolis. 

Waking up only momentarily as he’s lifted from the jet, Clark whines softly into a cape wrapped around him. It doesn’t feel like his own, but it’s warm and smells faintly of motor oil and an underlying earthier cologne that doesn’t taste bitter on his tongue like his own do.  _ Fancy _ . 

“Shh. Go back to sleep.” 

Well, if Bruce is telling him to do so, he will. No reason not to trust the man. Drifting back into unconsciousness, Clark curls tighter into the other’s chest and lets him take him wherever he needs to. If he ends up in a large bed that is sinfully soft that looks over a lake, he just questions how he got down to his boxer briefs. Or he does until he looks down and finds a sticky note slid into the waistband of them at his hip. How  _ inappropriate  _ that Bruce can get him to blush without having the decency to even be in the room. 

> _ Dick is coming over for dinner. Usual time.  _
> 
> _ Take whatever you like out of the closet. _
> 
> _ Rest. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. _


	8. Rainbowed Reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It will get better' he reminds himself, only to turn around and realize it has.

His collection of notes is getting out of hand. People are beginning to notice.

The original ones are in a scrapbook at home these days as they’ve been quickly surpassed, the dull yellow replaced with bright neons and pastels, stars and other shapes he didn’t know they made sticky notes into. He has six birthdates going up the side of his monitor at work, a few inappropriate, unsigned remarks about his personal appearance stuck to his bathroom mirror, and his fridge has become a patchwork quilt of reminders and messages from Tim, Dick, Barbara, and the occasional one from Jason about canoodling on rooftops in Metropolis (which has never happened he’d like to add, because they both have an image to uphold in the capes that does not include public indecency). Kid shouldn’t even be _in_ Metropolis.

What perhaps is best about the rainbow of reminders though is that they do not sit in a vacuum. They are times and dates for events that he has to be at, notes about what color to wear to which function, and even a few vaguely threatening ones about where he’s not supposed to go in Gotham. Following that, there’s also the unplanned and surprise visits, the coming back to his apartment and finding one or more of them there, sleeping or eating or watching TV or hanging another picture. It’s not just his fridge or little notes anymore, entire walls are now filled with gadgets and memorabilia, pictures and knick knacks that all sit on top of each other, overflowing his bookshelves and desk space. They have even spilled over into a farmhouse in Kansas, pictures and recipes quickly stuffed into whatever spaces that were always waiting for Clark to fill up on his own.

Living in the eye of the storm has never been so appealing as it is these days, moving through the world with several people connected to him via strings, tugging on each other this way and that until they all fall into something resembling coherency. There’s even a bit of the old life left over, something familiar in the chaos: he still asks Bruce Wayne questions that piss him off and he is still just as soundly dismissed, though it’s getting a bit out of hand with the lewd comments that get thrown his way now. Clark doesn’t pull his punches because of it, and he’s going to get a wrath of crap when he gets home later.

“Mr. Wayne. A word?”

“Ah, Mr. Kent.” Eyes rake over his figure and Clark shifts on his feet, tensing. Fingers reach out and he tries not to breathe as Bruce adjusts his tie, shaking his head as his eyes darken. So he _might_ be wearing a tie that had been left at his apartment last week, but he didn’t think it would be a _bad_ thing to do. “Can’t even get this straight. One of these days, you should have that Ms. Lane teach you how to dress to impress.”

“I’m not here to impress anyone, Mr. Wayne.” The mumbled ‘You could have fooled me’ doesn’t go unnoticed but Clark only shoots a warning glare at the blank but charming smile. “I’m here to find out what your stance is on the collapse of the deal between Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp. It seems the attempt to buy property from you here in Gotham was routed cleanly.”

“And the press hates anything _clean_ , is that it?” Bruce counters with a sharp grin, adjusting a cufflink. “Lex doesn’t need an introduction to the Planet and I’m not so dense that I don’t know what my investors would royally hate to see. The panel of market experts I pay for those kinds of assessments agree as well. Metropolis can keep Lex Luthor.”

“Could this have anything to do with his rather botched attempt to kill the Superman? Your viewpoint on the alien seems to have changed over the last few months with the reveal of the Justice League. You seem in full support of the team in question, despite your lack of confidence in the superhero individually.” Okay see, _now_ he’s actually being glared at, the pout in front of it having him struggling to not roll his eyes.

“It’s better that alien have people keeping him in check,” comes the low reply and there’s a gruffness to it that leaves Clark double blinking, not having expected an answer to that one. “After all, we don’t have any sort of knowledge of how Kryptonians grow up. It’s not like he’s from Kansas or anything.”

Voice caught in his throat, Clark has to clear it twice before he can get words out. Somehow, Bruce is always five steps ahead of him and he shakes his head, enjoying the way the other’s eyes laugh at him even when his grin is too bright to look at directly without feeling his nose scrunch in distaste. He understands this part of Bruce’s life but he doesn’t particularly like being in the direct firing line of this smarmy jackass anymore than he would any other. Frown pulling at his lips, he goes to ask another question only to have his shoulder cuffed harmlessly and a glass of something that smells heavily of fruit thrust into his hands. He only juggles it a bit before catching it, sigh coming out through his teeth.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I see the host. Enjoy the free drinks, Kent.”

It’s only when he goes to tug at his tie again that he finds it, the little note behind it and the sliver of annoyance that has settled in the pit of his stomach turns into a curl of fondness. God, he’s really hopeless, isn’t he? Chuckling softly to himself as he heads for an exit, there’s a time scrawled across the paper and he pockets it before slipping out the door into the street. Phone out, he gallops down the steps of the museum and takes a seat at the bottom of them, flipping through various responses he’s missed in the group chat he’s a part of with the kids. There’s a rather brisk reminder from Alfred that all of them can, in fact, see what they are saying. (Honestly, _fuck Batman_? Not that it probably isn't deserved in the long run, but what had he even done this time? Clark laughs but he also sends a private text to Dick to meet up for lunch sooner rather than later to head that off at the pass.)

There’s a half hour delay before he finds someone settling down at his side, and he doesn’t need to glance over to know exactly who it is, heartbeat something he falls asleep to nightly. He wonders idly if Bruce minds that, especially on nights where he’s not in the same room, but figures if it’s an open secret, the other man won’t exactly say no to him. A chuckle leaves him, softer than it has been all night, and Bruce grunts as if he knows exactly what he’s thinking about. Maybe he does.

“Ready to head home, Mr. Wayne?”

“God yes,” is the mumbled reply and Clark hefts himself up and offers a hand. Bruce doesn’t take it but he does give a quirk of his lips, a real smile that’s only for him this time of night. “Alfred is bringing the car around.”

“I can meet you the next street over then.”

“Not tonight.” A fist winds into the lapel of his jacket and Bruce scoffs. “We need to get you better clothes after this.”

Brows furrowed, Clark gives an inquisitive tilt of his head. He's always been careful to give Bruce space at public outings. This is a new turn of events he hasn’t been prepared for. Sure, there’s a rumor on the internet (when isn’t there for anyone and everyone that comes into contact with Bruce Wayne at a party), but his demeanor and inability to keep his mouth shut about hot topics has quelled it more than it dying down. No socialite would want to be with an annoying journalist, no matter how he looks, and Clark has stuck with that idea in the hopes of keeping the space Bruce needs to work.

This isn’t space. In fact, there’s a disturbing lack of it right out in the open, Bruce having hauled him closer and talking so close he could feel his breath across his cheek. Clark flushes, makes a noise in the back of his throat, and tries not to become flustered. It doesn’t work, the hard line of Bruce’s lips shifting the warm grin into a feral smile gives that away, but he doesn’t know what else to do other than flounder in the arms of his partner. They’re right in the way of a dozen or so cameras, the street light and neon from across the way make them backlit enough to stand out, and he wonders how long Bruce has been planning this without telling him.

“Bruce-”

“Shut up, Clark.”

Lips lock with his own and he doesn’t even hear the cameras buzz to life, the distant noise of electronics firing inside all those phones as insignificant as a gnat buzzing his head in the evenings on the back porch. He grins into the kiss, melts against the other man so much that his head has to lean back to keep their lips in contact, and forgets just for a moment where they are. Easier said than done when suddenly both their phones go off in their pockets, and he just needs a moment of x-ray vision to see the rapid notifications of all the kids yelling about ‘finally’ and ‘Ma Kent is going to love these pictures’ and ‘NO CANOODLING IN PUBLIC THEY SAID, WE HAVE IMAGES TO UPHOLD THEY SAID. LIES.’

He’s really going to have to have a talk with Jason, isn’t he? After all this has settled probably would be best, they haven’t really seen eye to eye ever. It might be a good time, or it could be a horrible time with the knowledge that he’s sticking around longer than anyone really took into account when they were starting this whole shebang. Now with the lights and cameras on Clark Kent as well, there is going to have to be a talk with the family to see if they’re okay with it. Well, as okay as they can be. It looks like Bruce is going to keep him around either way if the hands suddenly in his back pockets are anything to go by.

There’s a second where they’re just themselves in front of all these people, where he’s laughing to keep his blush from being noticed and Bruce is growling about social media and they’re both forced into a car by Alfred. He’s sure that those pictures are going to be prevalent as well, the happiness shining off of him in waves while the other takes him in like he’s ridiculous. He _is_ ridiculous, Clark decides as he tucks against Bruce in the car and nips as his ear, ignoring the ‘I’ve created a monster’ comment in favor of kissing him again. He loves this man who plays at being social only half the time, actually is because of the number of people he’s surrounded himself with the other half, and entirely unamused with their antics in the background of it all. If that makes him ridiculous then he’ll gladly be ridiculous. If that makes him something like love sick, then he’ll gladly be that too. Bruce is a dream come true (sappiness aside that he’s actually dreamed about it, please never let _that_ get out), and Clark is in love with the world for giving him what he wants just this once.

“We’re never going to hear the end of this, you know that right?” he murmurs against his lips, still laughing, if silently. “They’re going to find every photo, every article, and paste them in the most inappropriate places.”

“Maybe with you,” Bruce chuckles at last, throwing his arm over Clark’s shoulders and sitting upright so he can check his security feed on his phone, let his shoulders lift out of their lazy slope. His fingers stay in his hair, releasing well tamed curls back to their natural wild state. “I’m not the one that collects notes. You realize you have one in the inside pocket of your jacket, yes?”

“Dick put it there thinking I wouldn’t notice. It’s a good luck note, along with a stick figure doing who knows what. I didn’t know what he meant but I’m guessing this is it.”

“He sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong too often. Like other people I know.”

“That’s why he’s taken to patrolling with me when he’s in town. So you can keep Tim reigned in while- Alfred, can you pause at the next traffic light please?” Bruce gives him a look, already reaching for something at his waist before Clark stills his movements. “The barn back home just got broken into. Excuse me while I go put the fear of God into that snotty nosed kid from three fields over.”

“Say hi to Martha for me. I’ll keep an eye on Metropolis.”

“Try not to have too much fun without me.”

“Never.”

“I’ll give you a call when I get back?”

“Or you could just come back to the cave,” Bruce calmly states, eyes back on his phone as if Clark’s whole world didn’t just tilt on its axis. “If you wanted.”

“I’ll. I’ll see you there then.”

“Good.”

Clark darts out of the car as fast as he can, swallowing around a poorly working tongue as he speeds to Kansas. Ma is already up, shotgun in hand, but stills when she sees him. The reunion is quiet as he pulls off a few layers to make it seem like he was asleep before going to grab the kid by the scruff of the neck and haul him out of the barn. He’s a tiny thing and Clark has a long talk with him on the front porch as they wait for his parents to come pick him up, but his mind is elsewhere. Ma notices, because if anyone can read him like a book, it’s her.

“You made quite the splash online tonight,” she says just as casually as Bruce had asked him to come over, though she meets his gaze head on and with a knowing smile. “I can’t quite believe you fell for someone out of Gotham. What would that Bat think?”

“Oh, you know Ma. He’d probably not have it any other way. Keeps Superman in check, Gotham does,” he chuckles, crossing his arms as he literally floats on air. “Reminds him not to get too big for his trunks.”

“Perhaps I should send that young man some mementos.”

“Ma, no.”

“Like that first suit you made.”

“Ma. _No_.”

“Oh, let an old lady have her fun,” Martha laughs, swatting at him with a kitchen towel. “Now go on, go finish your business. I’m sure there were plans made that I’m not privy to.”

“Not really,” Clark mutters, rubbing at his cheeks as if it would help. He blushes far too much, he needs to work on that. “Just patrolling.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from that at least. Now, give me a hug and let Bruce know I expect him eventually for a Sunday dinner. In fact, tell that Alfred of his that you mention on the phone to give me a list of favorites and we’ll see if I can’t bribe him away from his board meetings for a taste of farm life. All their favorites.”

“I doubt I can pry Alfred’s favorites from him…”

“I meant those kids of his. Did you really think I wouldn’t realize?”

“Um. No?”

That starts her off again and Clark just leans against the porch railing listening, smiling harder than he ever thought he could. Picturing them here, all of them, makes something in him sing and eventually he’ll have to tell Ma who they are (if she hasn’t already figured it out, he shouldn’t underestimate a woman who raised an alien and took in his superpowers like it was normal). Tonight though, he’ll let her laugh at him and wag her finger about how to handle children, let her even go so far as to claim them as her own because so help her, they need someplace away from that ‘city life’ they’re all so used to. There’s a not so sly comment about grandchildren that’s even thrown into the mix. Clark ends up staying later than he should, if only because Metropolis is quiet tonight and Gotham is already protected so he doesn’t have to worry about it.

Maybe that’s the best part of all of this, the feeling of shouldering the weight of the world but not doing so alone. Being with Bruce, holding out his hand to so many others, it makes him feel more human than he ever thought possible. He can drag his feet while leaving home, he can smile and laugh with his Ma about the future, and he can feel hope in his chest bubble up like it’s meant to be there instead of darkness. Actually, he realizes as he changes into the cape and soars over Metropolis for a quick look into things, there’s been little of the dredge that sometimes tries to pull at him now that he knows where he stands in the grand scheme of things. Diana smiles at him a little brighter, Barry isn’t so nervous around him, even Victor and Arthur seem to be joking with him more. He’s no longer that fallen god with a shroud of death around him, and Clark rolls his shoulders as he turns his attention towards a lake house that’s getting too small for all of them rotating in and out.

He’s just Clark Kent and that name doesn’t have grave dirt clinging to it anymore because he’s doing so much more _living_. Whatever void tried to eat him not so long ago he’s learned to handle. Tomorrow, he’ll have to get up and do it all again but he also has a lunch meeting with Lois, an interview with a Metropolis surgeon about something Perry wants to know about, and a few phone calls to make. Sure, it’s the same old thing inside him, but it’s buffered by the life he’s chosen for himself and the people he’s surrounded with. Feet touching down in a field of wildflowers, Clark smiles up at the glass house, already knowing the door stands wide for him. It’s hard to fit darkness into a glass box he reasons out as he steps inside and heads for the cave. He just needed to find the right box to put himself in to remind himself of that.

“Master Clark. Welcome back.”

“Hey, Kent. What would I have to pay you to fly me to Japan tonight?”

“Thank you, Alfred. I actually have to talk to you about something. But. No, Jason.”

“There’s a guy-”

“ _No_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO! 
> 
> I can't believe the support you lovely people have bestowed upon me with this fic and first steps into the DC fandom. We're nearing the end now and I'm actually super happy with this story, something my inner editor is surprised at as we wind things down. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.


	9. Patchwork: An Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, he's worried that they'll never grow accustomed to him. Sometimes, he has to remember that they're just kids and he has time. Then things like this happen and he remembers that, in the end, Bruce chose them for a reason and if he can win Batman over, he'll eventually get them too.

“Are you through security? Good. Now remember that Ma is picking you up so you don’t have to call for a car.” Clark laughs softly down into the phone caught between his ear and shoulder, arms full of blankets and quilts that have been left in the living room after a particularly long movie night. “Tim. _Tim_. Don’t worry about it, she’s fine to drive, it’s her left foot that’s broken, and Kon will be with her. Hell, Kon might be driving. Just say hi to them for me, alright? Give Krypto lots of love too. And thank you, for going out there to help them. Also, I feel the need to warn you… I know we haven’t talked about it, and maybe I’m reading something wrong, but about Kon. And the hayloft. Ma has a pitchfork and knows how to use it. Don’t underestimate her.”

The phone goes sliding from his ear and Clark glances over his shoulder at Bruce, who does not look nearly as amused as he is. The wide smile he gives in response doesn’t help the thunderclouds across Batman’s brow and he winces as whatever Tim is saying is cut off by his father. Oh no, they’re both in trouble now.

“If I find out you made Ma Kent stab you with _anything,_ especially if that anything is because of a hayloft, I’ll be flying out there to have a chat with her younger son. Have a safe flight. Text Clark when you get there.” Well, he’s sure _that_ could have gone better and the phone is slipped into his pocket for him. “That boy better not touch him.”

“You weren’t complaining about the hayloft last time we were out there. Besides, Connor’s already had the talk with Ma and it’s not really him we should be worried about. You realize Tim is going to be basically exotic in Smallville, right? Teens from all over the county are going to be coming out of the woodwork to get a chance to meet him.”

“I stand by what I said.”

Snickering gets him a glare but Clark just kisses Bruce on the cheek, jumping at the hand that slips over his ass as he turns to go. Damn it, the other looks so _smug_ and Clark blushes to the tips of his ears as he continues on his way with the blankets.

He knows he doesn’t have to but he’s started to help Alfred clean up after family events. It makes him feel more like he belongs in the newly built manor home, if only because they are his ideas and he takes full responsibility for them so that the older gentleman can join in. While he knows it probably isn’t a condition to get Alfred to participate, it makes him feel better about the whole thing. He’s not used to butlers and his Ma would have his hide if she thought he was getting lazy, making other people do simple chores for him. Besides, these are _his_ blankets, all made at some point by the ladies in Smallville. It’s only right it be his cleanup, especially since Alfred has already begun breakfast. Dumping his cargo out on the bed, Cassie appears at his elbow just as quickly and takes one back, wrapping it around her frame and leaning into his side with a smile. Well, that one he is never getting back, _clearly_. Shaking his head, he tucks it around her so it doesn’t drag on the floor and then bumps foreheads gently before she can disappear. She’s the strangest, sweetest girl he’s met and he knows Lois Lane so that’s saying something.

“And you were worried she wouldn’t like you,” Bruce murmurs, having trailed them to the door. Arms crossed, vest unbuttoned and shirt sleeves rolled up, Clark is just impressed he’s out of bed before ten. Of course, he’s not really sure he actually slept. “She’s been showing up for meetings with her speech therapist more regularly, even if it’s just to show off what signs you two learned this week.”

“Sometimes showing up is half the battle,” Clark admits, going about his folding. “I just wanted to show her that there were other ways to communicate. So long as she can tell us what she wants to, how she wants to, that’s the important part. Doesn’t matter how she does it, not really.”

He’s going to say more but Bruce’s pocket buzzes, his phone throwing up a signal that they both pause to listen to. That particular tempo is the security system and both of them tense, words discarded to move towards the cave. Cassie’s still in the house, Jay should be sprawled on the floor in the living room still asleep, and everyone else should be in their bedrooms. Phone out before they even get to the above ground entrance, Bruce holds up his hand to stop him, eyes flickering to the roof and then out across the windows towards the lake. The camera view that Clark can just barely see at the angle he’s at shows a figure moving through the falling snow, early morning fog mingling with it to create a thick barrier to any visual identification.

Well, _almost_ anything visual. Clark’s eyes go unfocused for a second and scan out towards the lakehouse that has been remodeled a bit. It’s a good size now that all the walls have been torn down in it and a giant table placed in the middle. Best they’ve got for headquarters for now, but they’re working on it together. Only one thing is out of place. There’s a small shape moving through the snow there, crouched and not easily spotted, even by him.

“Damian’s trying to sneak into your vault again. You know, _one of these days_ you’ll have to just give him a sliver of kryptonite if he really doesn’t trust me that much.”

“Didn’t he fall asleep on you last night? And he doesn’t trust anyone, it’s not just you. Talia’s influence.”

“He’s very persistent. To the point of being stubborn about it.”

“My influence, unfortunately.”

Bruce is out the door before he’s even finished that sentence and Clark follows at a more sedate pace, wanting to finish his folding first. He opens one of the side doors with a wave to Titus and Ace, letting them out to help herd the child and his father back inside. Without their coats, they’ll freeze before long, and Clark goes about making coffee for all of them (though it’s much more milk with a hint of coffee for Damian, as he’s only nine and there’s already so much they need to train out of him). After years of this, he thought he’d get used to the mayhem, but there’s no getting used to any of it and that makes him smile to himself. He’s caught out by Alfred, who slides a cup of tea towards him instead, and Clark chuckles with a dip of his head in thanks.

“Young Master Damian already creating havoc this morning?”

“If he wasn’t it wouldn’t be the weekend, Alfred. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No, Master Clark. I don’t think any of us would, including him.”

The door swings open and both men share a look at the snow that flurries in behind Bruce, who has his youngest hefted against his chest like a sack of potatoes. It’d probably help if the boy wasn’t squirming and clawing like a caught raccoon, attempting to free himself.

“He’s a _Kryptonian_ , Father. I must have the means to bring down all our enemies within my grasp and you keep our most valuable asset locked away.”

“Clark isn’t your enemy, Damian.”

“ _Tt!_ But Superman might-”

“Clark.” Having watched the entire scene, Clark raises a brow to show he’s listening, glad to not be directly involved. “Are you free this afternoon?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Care to join us for training?”

“Father.”

“... _Sure_.”

“I refuse to work with this sad excuse for-”

“Good. See you both at nine. I have to phone in a meeting in twenty minutes.”

“Eat first?” Clark tries, holding out a plate and the coffee. The coffee gets taken first before the plate is removed from his hand reluctantly. “We won’t be late.”

“As if I’m ever late, _alien_.”

Knowing what caused this little outburst helps, in its own way. Not having been given much of a childhood where it could be considered normal to do the mundane side of living (like movie nights), waking up on the chest of the man his father sleeps with and a homemade blanket over them, his father petting through his hair absentmindedly, is probably as surreal to Damian as the big city was to Clark when he first moved from Kansas. If they’re going that direction, then it’s probably a bigger clash with reality that Clark had no problem being said pillow, relaxed and unmoving even though he was awake and chatting about a case with Bruce. The kid is always so cold and Clark knows he’s a natural furnace, exuding sunlight from his pores, it made sense to let his arm settle against him as he’d crawled up between him and his father the night before. Even that was an improvement, as the boy normally would have tried to kick him off the couch.

When he’d fallen over with exhaustion into his lap though, Clark had froze then, but he’d arranged them so that no back pain would occur. Bruce had even helped with the transition, wary but convinced by Dick’s whispered words as Clark slowly began to drift as well. He’s sure there’s pictures somewhere of the rare and exotic notion that Damian is a ‘real boy’ or whatever it is that his brothers tease him about. Either way, Clark is almost _glad_ for the outburst because it means Damian is trying to figure out something and, even though he’s still resorting to violence, it means he’s at least thinking about it carefully.

“Careful or your face will stick like that,” Clark admonishes as he pushes the pursudo coffee towards Damian like a peace offering as Bruce disappears. “Think of it this way, maybe you can find a way to bring me down without kryptonite.”

“I already know how to do that, I would simply have to kill father to force your hand.” Clark’s heart stops for a moment and he stares, horrified. Damian looks vaguely uncomfortable and refuses to meet his eye. “It was never a true option.”

“No, _no it’s not_. And it wouldn’t really stop me. ”

“No.”

“The same goes for any of you, actually,” Clark muses more to Alfred as he turns away from the youngest Wayne, shaking his head as he tries to calm his heartbeat. The look of understanding does not go unnoticed as the man slides him a plate and Clark digs in. “Ya’ll don’t think I’d be there in a heartbeat if any of you called, you’re wrong.”

“You all,” Damien murmurs, climbing up on the stool next to him and frowning hard into his drink. “You uncivilized heathen.”

“Just eat your breakfast so it settles before training, Damian,” Clark shushes, flipping through articles on his phone and listening for anything he could run out to help with in the nearest fifty mile radius. “You can try to kill me later.”

“ _Tt_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has followed this story. Those who read, left kudos, left comments, and interacted with me about the story and where it was going forever have my gratitude. I hope it reached a satisfying ending and I'm hopeful to write more for this pairing and family down the line. If you have any questions, please feel free to leave them in the comments. :) I'll answer those I can, should they occur!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for anything Superman/Batman related, thanks to a friend of mine who gave me these characters to hold onto as I go through some stuff. I am new to the fandom, have only really watched a few of the movies (and devoured as many comic scans as I can online, though those are somewhat out of context), so please have mercy on my soul as I take baby steps in learning the characters and their voices. I think I did okay but you may run into my weakness with tense changes. This was also supposed to be way shorter than it is, but what the heck. It was fun to write and I needed something fun.


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